


The Bright Light Visible

by wordybirdy



Series: From Trifle to Infinity [7]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-17 23:26:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The October of 1888 brings with it many things: A music hall mystery, secrets, love and family.  All of which combine to remind Holmes and Watson of what they have and should hold dear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gifts and Sundries

Sherlock Holmes leaned to pick his cigarette case from the small side table. Extracting one carefully from the silk inner of the engraved silver, he struck a match and touched it to the end. Drawing deeply and exhaling slowly with a low hum of pleasure, he pushed the open case to me, peeking sideways, watching as I performed the same ritual.

“Ashtray,” I said.

My friend reached for it and placed it between us. We smoked quietly, the neither of us talking but listening to the Autumn rainfall as it pattered on the sill. I stretched my leg, leaned back and watched the last of the lambent fire flames cast their glow upon the rug. I felt calm, content, relaxed.

“The fire is dying out,” said Holmes. “It will be damnably chilly before long.” He looked around the room. “I believe we shall be in for a wretched Winter.” The ash from his cigarette had grown ponderously long. He noticed a moment before I might warn him; tapping away the flake into the silver monkey skull of which he was so fond. “I caught it, John,” said he, “no need to scold.”

“A good thing, too,” I replied. “Mrs. Hudson is a little tired of mending bedsheets.”

He stubbed out the cigarette and burrowed down beneath the blankets, one bare arm slung around my waist with head to one side on the pillow and gazing at me. I smiled down, moved my cigarette to my left hand and stroked his black hair with the other. He closed his eyes. I threaded my fingers through the thick shock, smoothed errant strands from his high forehead. Holmes nudged against my wrist, made as if to nibble with his teeth. Still soft and playful after loving; no matter his pretend peeving at the cold. I finished my smoke, set the ashtray to the side again and hunkered down to meet him on his plain. We rubbed noses. He wrinkled, burrowed deeper.

“Now, tomorrow,” I began.

Holmes groaned softly. He already knew what I should say.

“Yes, tomorrow,” I repeated. “You know very well what we must do.”

“Why tomorrow?” he grumbled, half muffled by the blankets. “Why can we not wait until nearer the time?”

“It is _already_ nearer the time,” I reminded him. “And if we leave it any longer then it shall have come about and there we'll be, unprepared and entirely at your brother's mercy.”

I heard him chuckle.

“John, you are over-dramatising to the point of the ridiculous,” said he. “I am quite certain that Mycroft could not care a jot less as to what we turn up with. I suggest a case of Beaujolais. It is far simpler.”

“No,” I said. “Just no.” I gave up then, for the moment, for my friend's hand was roving, wandering, distracting. “You are doing that deliberately,” I chided.

He ducked under the covers and placed a kiss to my stomach.

“This is _now_ ,” said he. “And you worry too much about the minutiae of the mundane.”

And that is true, of course. I do. I always have. But I believe it is that which keeps us so incomparably well balanced as a pair. The small matter of Sophronia Holmes being almost at full term did not seem to bother my friend unduly, for he was quite confident that all should be well. My persistent reminders that we should begin to seek out gifts and sundries only met with his amused indifference. One can only press a point so far; I had resigned myself to the miserable idea of shopping alone.

These past months had proved exceptionally busy for Holmes. In May he had been engaged by the French government on a matter of such importance as had necessitated some short time away from Baker Street. To my chagrin, the case was such that I was unable to accompany him, but the payment for his efforts was princely, and his delight in solving the complex political conundrum so complete as to carry us happily through to the month of June. We found ourselves in and outside of our great city of London on a sizeable number of cases large and small. Perhaps some day I shall relate the Mystery of the Porcelain Trumpet, which held my friend fairly baffled for a brief while. Even more so, the Secret of the Golden Sundial, with its delicacies of a family torn asunder by bad marriage. By the time that September and October came around, Holmes was winding down the last of his engagements, leaving us with a welcome respite before we might look forward to the next.

It was no doubt part due to casework that my friend's mood had lightened much since that dark and fated April. At his request, we had spoken of it no further and very gradually it faded – or so it seemed to for the most part, for still at certain moments I might catch Holmes with such an expression on his face in contemplation that he could never explain away to me quite as convincingly.

But now such moments seemed very far away while here together, warm and snug in the late evening of our bed. I drew him to me, and he, reaching out to extinguish the lamp, curled back into my side to sleep, his soft breathing gently deepening.

“Hm, I forgot to tell you,” he murmured, his lips pressed against my skin, “they have decided upon the names.”

“Really?” I whispered, delighted. “If it is a boy, will he be named after his father? Oh, what girl's name have they chosen? Holmes? Holmes!” 

And sleep does descend at inopportune moments, that eager questions must wait 'til morning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The following morning was bitterer than the chilled night before. A condensation upon the window panes; the sitting-room fire banked up and blazing. Holmes and I sat at the table, grateful for our breakfast of hot coffee, toast and eggs.

“You may well be right about the Winter,” I said, shivering. “This is ridiculous. And it is barely October.”

He grunted. A small corner article in The Times appeared to have demanded his attention, for he propped the folded broadsheet against the sugar bowl and commenced to read intently. I knew that it should be futile to interrupt him, so I poured myself more coffee and looked out onto the grey expanse of Baker Street. A small group of children clustered around a lamp post some short distance away. I recognised several of them as trusted members of Holmes's Irregulars. Young Wiggins was holding court, punching the air and arguing with an unknown taller lad. I watched them, smiling.

“Holmes!” I said, remembering finally and interrupting anyway. “You fell asleep on me last night. What are the names that your brother has chosen?”

My friend looked up from his newspaper.

“If it is a boy, then 'Jeremiah'. I think. If it is a girl, then... I cannot recall,” said he, waving his hand dismissively.

“You are hopeless,” I told him. He snorted softly, returning to his read.

“What have you found there that is so fascinating?” I enquired.

Holmes pointed to the article that he had been pondering for minutes.

“Watson,” said he, “I don't suppose that you ever heard of the Merry Ferret?”

I burst out laughing at the name.

“No,” I replied, “I cannot say that I have. Who, or what is it?”

My friend smiled. “It is most certainly not a _Who_ ,” he said. “It is a music hall in Lambeth. Hardly surprising that you are unfamiliar with it.”

“I do not object to music halls,” I said, “but I confess that I have never been to that particular one. Its name is rather amusing. What has happened there?”

“Nothing,” replied Holmes. “Except that the Times journalist who visited it last night has written a small rant about how such places should be pulled down. Evidently he did not enjoy the acts that he saw.” Holmes looked at me. “I have – or perhaps, had – an acquaintance who was employed there, once. That was my sole reason for mentioning it to you.”

“I see,” I said. “Well, if that journalist fellow does not enjoy such entertainment, then he should stay well away from such places. They are rowdy and often bawdy, and are certainly not to everyone's taste. To say that such buildings should be pulled down...” I shook my head, chuckling. I pushed the egg dish towards my friend. “Eat,” I told him. “Who was the acquaintance?” I asked then, suddenly curious.

Holmes's expression became mysterious.

“A wrestler,” he said. “Before your time,” he added. “I doubt they are still there.” He closed his lips firmly and turned the pages of his newspaper, taciturn once more.

I sipped my coffee thoughtfully. Peeping out again, I observed that the Irregulars had disbanded from their corner, leaving one straggler who was scuffing up his boots in a bad temper. I glanced at my watch: it was a little past nine o'clock. If we were to get anything done at all this day, then it would be best to not lose any further time of it by idling. I was into my greatcoat, scarf and gloves before my friend had reached the bottom of his coffee cup. He looked at me askance, as if only this moment having noticed my fresh apparel.

“You are going out?”

“ _We_ are going out,” I said. “If you have quite finished that fourth cup of coffee already.”

The air outside was frigid. Holmes complained bitterly for the duration of our walk. He wanted his books and his chair by the fire, with a large pouch of tobacco and his favourite pipe. It was unfortunate therefore that he should be getting none of these things until we had proven successful with our foray. I told him this. He chuntered threats beneath his breath that thankfully did not make it to my ears. We found our way to a grand department store, and somehow by random direction located the nursery section. My friend scowled through polished glass at a myriad of small necessities.

“This is worse than when we shopped for the wedding gift,” he informed me. “At least then we were looking at interesting things. I am unable to find the remotest joy in feeding bottles and perambulators.”

“You are a grouch,” I said, squeezing his elbow. “Come over here and look at the silver goods with me.”

Solicitous sales assistants spread out rows of items for our approval. Eventually by a process of elimination we selected a number of charming robes and blankets, and a sterling silver rattle. The rattle had six tiny bells attached to it by chains. Its central section was etched with leaves and flowers. It had an integrated whistle, and a handsome solid ebonised handle.

“The whistle will drive Mycroft mad,” said my friend, apparently much cheered by the thought.

We wended our way around the crowds of morning shoppers, stepping back out onto the street and blinking up at the heavy sky.

“That took all of one hour,” said Holmes. “I am glad it is done with, but great heavens, Watson, it _could_ have waited.”

“What would you wish to do now?” I asked.

“To go home and look through the morning post,” said he. “You whisked me away without my even having had opportunity to slit the flap of just one envelope. I really do think that--”

Is it considered poor manners to nudge one's partner in the ribs to cease his grumble? 

Well, then, it appears that I am a poor mannered fellow, and that is all there can be to it.

There was nothing in the post that had suffered for the necessity of waiting sixty minutes. No cardboard boxes with packed salt containing macabre severed body parts, nor painstaking letters snipped from newspapers with distinctive case and font: “ _KeEp yOur Nose oUt, MR hoLmes._ ” I believe that my friend should much have preferred such a correspondence, for he sighed now as he sifted through the drear and turned towards his fireside chair.

“I am quite glad that there is nothing,” I said. “You have had scant opportunity to rest these past months.”

“I do know that,” he replied, “but I cannot help it.”

He sat with his ink pen and writing pad and set to composing several letters. I packed away our purchases and called down to Mrs. Hudson for a fresh hot pot of tea. Holmes's first missive was a mere paragraph. Peeping over his shoulder, I read the words in his elegant script: “ _Regretfully, I must decline..._ ”. Rather unlikely to be a response to a case; far more likely to an innocent invite to dinner or party. My friend's solitary nature avoided both as far as he could, wherever possible. The corner of his mouth quirked as he followed on my train of thought.

“A Halloween Costume Ball,” said he, without looking up from his envelope address. “Lord and Lady Carstairs and their daughter Catherine should be delighted, etcetera etcetera. I need say no more. Their efforts to matchmake are intolerable.”

I perched on the arm of the chair and rested a hand upon his shoulder. I leaned to press a light kiss to the nape of his neck. His skin was warm and clean, with a scent of soap and light cologne. He inclined his head a little forward; my lips slid down below his collar.

“You are starting something,” he murmured soft. “I advise you to stop.”

“I do know that,” I mimicked him, “but I cannot help it.”

He swatted at my leg.

We heard our landlady in the downstairs hallway with the clatter of the tea tray at the same time as the door bell rang. I straightened up reluctantly; Holmes smoothed down his hair. From below, the sound of voices: one familiar, soft and concerned, the other male and rather raucous.

“So what have we here?” said Holmes, easing himself out of his chair to stand closer to the hearth, his eyes fixed upon our sitting-room door.

A knock upon it, then pushed open by our landlady.

“Mr. Holmes, sir,” said she, “you have a visitor. A gentleman who says he knows you. A Mr. Laughton.”

She stepped back to allow the man his entrance. Two striding steps saw the same Mr. Laughton inside our room, with his hands set on his hips, his boots splayed apart. He was a burly bear of a fellow, some six feet tall and nigh as wide, with a loose knot of mad brown hair and bushy eyebrows. His expression was beetled; he looked to my friend.

“Dear me,” said Sherlock Holmes, “what a commotion. And a very good morning to you, Pipsqueak.”


	2. The Three Slapshoes

At the mention of his name, a broad smile swept over the man's face. He strode towards my friend and, to my enormous surprise and a tinge of alarm, lifted him almost clear of his feet in a warm embrace.

“Aye, it's me, Pipsqueak,” said he, forgetting his trouble for one moment to grin down at his hostage.

“My dear fellow, it is good to see you again after so many years,” said Holmes, gently extricating himself from the clutch. “And why, I only mentioned you to Watson here a little earlier this morning. An extraordinary coincidence.”

The fellow looked at me questioningly. I held out my hand in greeting.

“Mr. Laughton,” I said. “I am pleased to meet you. You are... a wrestler, by profession?”

He grasped my hand and shook it with the power of ten men.

“Aye,” he said again. “That's right. And the strangest thing did happen at our place last night.”

Our landlady had returned with a third teacup and saucer, and was bustling behind us setting the tray out on the table. Once she had departed, Holmes beckoned our visitor to a chair with a motion that I might pick up my notebook and pencil to join them. I took my place and listened while the two caught up with the greater detail of each other's lives. I had not known Holmes to profess any history of close friendship in the time before I knew him, but he and 'Pipsqueak' Laughton certainly did seem to be engaging like the proverbial house on fire. I found myself speculating just how they had met. As it transpired, the fellow was indeed still a regular performer at The Merry Ferret which, in addition to its usual roster of singers and dancers, we learned also included acrobats, jugglers, wrestlers and oddities. These good people would travel the city from one hall to the other, to tour the provinces before returning to favoured haunts and venues.

“The Ferret is a good place,” said Laughton, swallowing a long draught of his tea. “It may be more than a touch shabby around the edges, but them that work there are fine sorts, and I've made many a loyal pal among the acts who head back there. It's a popular hall, Mr. Holmes, as you must likely remember.”

My friend smiled quietly.

“I do remember,” said he. “It has brought back fond memories. And I am glad that you have managed to make your living at what you do best. But now then, you did not come here just to chit chat. Please, tell us exactly what occurred last night that has worried you enough to bring you to these rooms.”

The great fellow leaned forward conspiratorially in his chair.

“It may be a small nothing,” said he, “but I, and others fear it to be elsewise. Little Buster has vanished! For one moment he was there, the next he was gone.”

Laughton shut his lip tight and sat back then, as if that statement should clear up any doubt about everything. Holmes smiled at him faintly.

“That is unfortunate for Buster,” said my friend. “Do continue.”

“Well,” said the fellow, his eyebrows raised up into his head, “Buster is one member of an acrobat trio who are known as 'The Three Slapshoes'. There's a man and there's a woman, an' they play the role of father and mother. And then there's Buster – who is a midget – who pretends to be their son. Course, he's nothing of the sort, he's almost as old as they, ha ha! But he is small, see, and so he can get away with it. Anyway. They were in the middle of their act last night, and one minute Buster was there, and then he wasn't, and no-one can find him, or has seen him or heard from him since. There was no argument between 'em, Mr. Holmes, they were all as happy as they could be. I don't know nothin' about their personal lives, mind. I ain't the interferin' sort. But Buster wouldn't disappear for no good reason. We're all worried, Mr. Holmes. Worried.”

Laughton sat back again. He grabbed at his teacup and nursed it, scowling, fretful.

Holmes opened his eyes again to fix them upon the wrestler.

“Buster was onstage at the time of his disappearance?” he enquired.

“Yes, he was. Uh--” Laughton stopped short, reconsidered. “Eeehh, no, he wasn't.”

“He wasn't?”

“No. 'Father' had just thrown him through the stage backdrop window – as part of the act, see, it's a special backdrop. It's painted like how a room looks, an' with long slats cut in the fabric across the bit with the window – and Buster should have run straight round from the backstage area to the wings and back onto the stage. Oh oh, and here's the funny thing about it,” said the fellow. “You'll never guess.”

“I am quite certain that I should not,” said Holmes.

“There's a stage hand who waits in the backstage area every time to make sure that Buster lands from his throw without hurtin' himself. 'Cause, see, he's thrown right through that fake window. And old Samuel – that's the stage hand – swears to god that Buster never did appear! And he was watchin' and waitin' the whole time! But the whole audience _saw_ Buster thrown through the backdrop! Explain THAT, Mr. Holmes.”

“The stage hand's attention was distracted, quite evidently,” said my friend.

“He swears not. He was stood there, the whole time, just waitin'. No-one even spoke to him that they should distract him. He was stood there watchin' for Buster, and nothin' happened. But everyone on the other side saw that it did.”

“Then the stage hand is not telling the truth,” said Holmes.

Laughton thumped a meaty fist on his knee.

“Old Samuel has been there for years and is as loyal as they come. He has no reason to tell a lie. He is as perplexed as the rest of us.”

“Then we have a mystery indeed,” replied my friend. “Are there any trapdoors backstage? What exits lead off from the area?”

“There are no trapdoors,” said Laughton. “To one side, where Samuel was standing, there are the dressing rooms. To the other side is a long corridor, which leads out to some storage rooms and the side exit to the yard. But everything was locked up, Mr. Holmes – even the exit – to stop any undesirables getting in during the show. Samuel has a set of keys, an' so does the Chairman, an' so does the other stage hand who helps out Samuel – an' he was on duty, too, at the time, and saw nothing.”

“Are you quite sure that you require my assistance?” asked Holmes. “Are the police not better suited to advise?”

“Pah,” said Laughton, with a curl of his lip. “They are not interested in the likes of us. They say it is the eccentric nature of the performer, and that he'll show up soon, and that it hasn't been long enough to tell yet, and blah blah blah. Help us find Buster, Mr. Holmes.”

“I shall try,” said my friend. “Watson and I will journey to Lambeth the first thing this afternoon. How does that sound to you?”

“Well, that sounds just grand,” said Laughton, with a relieved smile. “Thank you, we should appreciate it.”

The fellow stood up stretching, and he shook both our hands.

“That tea would've gone down better with one or two biscuits,” said he sorrowfully.

“I do apologise,” said Holmes. “Next time, I promise, Pipsqueak.”

“Fig rolls are my favourites,” said our friend, with a hopeful face. Then he was gone, his big boots clattering down the stairs.

Holmes and I looked at each other, and of one accord burst into laughter. We took ourselves back beside the fire where I made an opportunity to glance across the notes that I had taken.

“What do you conceive might have happened?” I said. “Did the stage hand do away with the little fellow, do you suppose?”

Holmes shook his head. “I shall not be theorising until I have had the opportunity to speak to everyone that I am able at the hall,” he said. “It is quite an intriguing mystery now, I see that. Although it is entirely possible that the lad Buster shall have reappeared by the time we poke our noses in this afternoon.”

“The fellow Laughton,” I said. “How well did you know him, before?”

My friend looked at me.

“I mean to say,” I continued, “he seemed terribly familiar with you, and you were very friendly when you were talking with him, and--”

“John,” said Holmes, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, tapping a staccato, “what are you implying?” He chuckled. “You are jealous.”

“No,” I said, flustered. “No, I am not jealous. But it is clear that you and he used to be good friends?”

“One of my earliest cases,” Holmes said, smiling. “His mother, would you believe it, had been accused of stealing a ruby necklace from her employer, and Pipsqueak came to me for advice. I visited him several times at the hall while we cleared the lady's name, and he was very grateful for it. We retained contact for a short period afterwards. Platonic contact, John. As you should know.” 

I pulled a wry face at him. He winked.

“Tell me about the Merry Ferret,” I said. “Were the Slapshoe trio performing there when you first knew Laughton?”

“Not that I recall,” said my friend. “However, I do recall a dancing dog that had a particular talent for backward somersaults. Also a harpist, who had restrung sections of his harp with barbed wire for some unfathomable reason. His fingers were in a perpetual state of shred. I _did_ rather enjoy the solo violinist, but he was a temperamental fellow prone to spitting into the crowd and exposing his undergarments, so he did not last very long.”

Holmes's recount of the hall's entertainers amused me immensely, so I did for one minute forget that we had been disturbed in a moment of intimacy and that, if it pleased the lean figure sprawling comfortably before me now, I should much like to continue. (My unremitting ardour is both curse and blessing, but I do so dislike any disruption.) I stood behind his chair and placed my hands upon his shoulders, kneading the muscle there. He emitted a soft growl of pleasure. I lowered my lips to his ear.

“When must we depart for Lambeth?”

“Straightaway after luncheon, as I mentioned before, John,” said he. He inclined his head towards me. “Oh, you have that look in your eye again.”

“Yes,” I said, “I have.” I leaned in. “I wish to do something indescribably filthy to you,” I murmured, tracing one finger down my friend's throat to his stiff collar. Holmes shuddered, squirmed, yet made no move toward me; passive, waiting, eyelids fluttered closed. I realised then that what I most wanted to do involved the employment of the horizontal, with markedly fewer garments and a more tolerably soundproofed room than the one we were presently in. I reluctantly revised my mental schematic. 

“I suppose that for now we shall have to make do with this,” I said, and I craned my neck and kissed the air clean out of him.

“I admire your restraint,” said he, gasping. “I should not have permitted it in any case, for heaven's sake, John.” He was smiling, though, reaching up to caress my cheek. “This predilection of yours for the middle of the day...”

“I know,” I said, “I'm despicable.”

I sat down, pocketed my notebook and took out my pipe. Holmes had relapsed into one of his typical reveries: he was curled up in his chair and had drawn his knees up to his chin with both arms clasped around. His mind was by now surely full of thoughts of painted backdrops, small agile acrobats and the twists and turnings that would lead to the culmination of this strange and dark conundrum. He sat that way for quite one hour until Mrs. Hudson came to clear away the tea tray, and to bring with her a welcome plate of roast beef sandwiches. Even then he did not partake but pushed the dish across to me that I might eat.

“This evening,” I told him, “I am taking you out to dinner, whether this case has concluded or not.”

He nodded, still distracted.

“And then perhaps the theatre,” I continued. “I think that we would both enjoy that.”

“Hm,” said he, finally snapping to attention. “Well, it depends. If this affair is rather more complicated than it would seem at first glance, then of course I should concentrate on that above all else.”

I set my chin glumly. “Of course.”

Holmes caught my tone, glanced at me, frowning.

“Then again, it might take just an hour or two,” he said, conciliatory. “We shall know quite soon enough.”

The light rain had ceased when at last we emerged from 221B. It took some little time to hail down a hansom, nonetheless, but eventually we found ourselves ensconced and snug in a two-seater, and rattling out for Lambeth and the Merry Ferret music hall. Holmes remained silent for the duration of the journey. I wrapped my coat the further around me, peering out at the afternoon bustle and listening to the steady rhythm of the carriage over tarmacadam and pitted cobble. When at length we pulled up at the hall, and stepped down from the hansom to gaze up and around, it was with some small excitement that I observed the wooden placard propped in front of the main door.

“Holmes!” I said. “I have heard of this act.” I pointed to the board. My friend looked over my shoulder at the gaudy lettering.

“ _Camberwell Clarence_ ,” he intoned. “A ventriloquist?” 

“No,” I replied. “A singer. With a small difference.” And I chuckled. Holmes narrowed his eyes.

“I see,” said he. Then: “Shall we?”

And he twisted the handle of the great oaken door, and forward we went, out of the elements and into the maelstrom.


	3. Indestructible

The entrance foyer of the Merry Ferret was large and bleak, chipped and cold. The original blue-painted walls had peeled back to declare themselves a muddy white. The wide ring of stone pillars proclaimed their indifference – for they were rather more preoccupied with holding up the high-beamed ceiling. The boarded floor, once carefully tended, now sprung rusted nails and creaked and groaned as we stepped across them to the pay booth. The booth was naturally empty, it being still a little after noon with no acts showing at present. Two locked kiosks commandeered the opposite wall: one selling journals, newspapers, tobacco; the other packaged cakes and pastries. What I presumed to be a staff room lead off from one side exit, while to the other we found to be the patrons' facilities. Straight ahead were the wide double doors which should take us through to the main hall.

Holmes examined the advertisement boards with some interest.

“There is a juggler fellow here who calls himself _'Tommy Throw'_ ,” said he. “How singularly unimaginative.”

“Perhaps that is his real name?” I suggested.

My friend snorted.

“ _Enjoy a dalliance with Camberwell Clarence_ ,” he continued, reading from an adjacent pinned sheet. “I think that I would rather not.”

I chuckled and took his elbow.

“Ah, here we are,” he said, as we moved to the last of the triptych display. The most prominent poster, fastened askew in the middle, proclaimed the triumphant return of the _Acclaimed Acrobatic Trio: The Three Slapshoes! 'Laugh, gasp and applaud at their sensational stunts!'_ the hand-painted advertisement urged breathily. _'Watch as Father tosses little son Buster high up into the air and around the room! – He is indestructible!'_

“Poor Buster,” said Holmes. “No wonder he vanished.”

“Hush,” I admonished my friend. “According to Laughton, they are a happy bunch and it was very out of character for the lad.”

“He would be as bruised as a box of overripe peaches all the same, I don't doubt.”

I rattled the doors of the main hall but they were still securely locked.

“Is anyone even here?” I wondered aloud. “The first show is not until six. I cannot hear a single sound apart from us.”

“If Pipsqueak is not already present, then surely the Chairman himself will be,” said Holmes, and he strode up to the staff room door and rapped smartly upon it.

We heard slow, dulled footsteps from within and the resistant turning of a rusty key. The door opened a crack and a thin sliver of a face peeped out.

“Yes?” said the face. “What do you want? We are closed.”

“I am aware of that,” said my friend. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague, Dr. John Watson. We are here at the request of Pipsqueak Laughton, who has informed us of the unfortunate disappearance of one of your performers. May we please speak with you?”

The door opened further inwards to reveal to us a short, rotund man of approximately middle-age, bespectacled, grey-whiskered and anxious. His agitated fingers brushed down the worn front of his dark suit.

“I am the Chairman of this establishment. My name is Charles Lloyd,” said the man. He thrust out a fleshy hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Holmes. Indeed, I am quite in awe. Pipsqueak has told me much about your prowess.”

Holmes puffed visibly at this, being as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any young girl on her beauty.

“Well, well,” he murmured, “that was a long time ago. I hope I might be of some help in this instance. May we come in?”

The Chairman Lloyd beckoned us into his office and invited us to sit down before the desk, where he took his place upon the opposite side, setting his elbows a way apart, his fingers loosely clasped together.

“You must understand, however,” said he, “that I am a little surprised our mutual acquaintance saw fit to bring you into the middle of this. For I am quite confident that young Buster will reappear before too long, with none the worse to show for it.”

“I am curious as to how you might be so sure,” said my friend. “Do you have any inkling of what might have occurred?”

The Chairman shook his head, rolled his eyes, shrugged his shoulders.

“I have no conceivable idea,” he replied. “I understand that Pipsqueak informed you of the details. At the time, then, I was sitting at my usual table near the wings – and I was the only fellow there, Mr. Holmes – and I saw nothing. Little Buster sailed – _whee!_ – through the flaps as he normally would, and then we were all waiting for him to show up around by my side to re-enter the stage. But he did not. No, sir, he did not.”

“Did you hear anything unusual?” Holmes asked.

The Chairman sighed. “Mr. Holmes, with the noise of the crowd, you must understand...”

“Of course,” said my friend. “I do appreciate the difficulty. Well, then, what were the reactions of his fellows still on the stage?”

“Why, they were most perturbed,” Lloyd replied. “After a minute of waiting and clowning around, they had to pretend that it was all part of the act. Father poked his head out of the 'window' and called out for his son to come on home, and Mother waved her rolling pin. But then when Buster did not reappear, it all fell to a sorry state and they finished their act before time. Of course, I stuck my head around to the backstage area, but it was entirely clear. I do not know what else to tell you, Mr. Holmes. I do not know the three of them much more than wishing them the time of day and very general conversation. As far as I knew, they had no trouble or dispute with any other of our acts.”

“Old Samuel was not still present when you peeped backstage?”

“No, by that point he must have heard the row and gone searching for the fellow.”

“What other acts were on the bill yesterday evening?”

“Well, apart from the acrobats, there was Camberwell Clarence, Tommy Throw, and Pipsqueak and his chum. It'll be mostly the same again tonight – although of course, we shall be replacing The Three Slapshoes with my troupe of dancing girls -- and then we shall have a switch-around.”

“Very good. Are you able to confirm that the only key holders to the building are yourself and the two stage hands?”

“I can confirm that is the case, sir. Just the three of us.”

“Thank you,” said Holmes. “With your permission, we shall take a look around now. I should like to borrow your key set, if that is convenient.”

Charles Lloyd looked a little put out.

“If you absolutely must. But do, do please take care of them, and return them as soon as you can. If they should fall into the wrong hands...”

Holmes steered me out from the Chairman's office and so, with a turn of the largest brass key on the ring, we entered the main hall.

The arena was filled with a great number of long, planked tables, surrounded by benches. To one side there stood a large counter where jugs of wine and ale might be despatched to the crowd. Empty tureens sat waiting to be filled with hot stew or broth. The stage was grand and imposing, albeit disgruntled by years of use and neglect. A gold-painted arch stretched across it, with coloured lights and gauzy curtains all around. The floor was marred and stained, bowing slightly at odd sections as if ill supported. Rather tawdry in the broad light of day, yet I imagined that it must hold a certain majesty and magic come the evening, with the twinkle and the music and the tumult.

Holmes had already sprung up to the boards, where he proceeded to stamp around and examine the various props that lay abandoned from the night. He beckoned that I should join him.

“One trapdoor,” said he, pointing to the middle of the stage. “I do not expect the area below it to be very great, more likely a low crawl space with an exit near the wings. There are fresh water marks over there from a tipped vase, and a plethora of boot scuffs and scratches. It is the backstage area that interests me the most in any case.”

He walked to the back of the stage and ran his hand against the backdrop. He lifted several of the fabric slats and peeped through to the other side. We moved off to the nearest side where the Chairman's table stood; the wooden gavel for keeping order still lay upon it. Holmes had disappeared around the wings, but for just one moment I stepped back, and turned around to face the benches. For a childlike second I envisioned myself as performer, actor or storyteller, with rows of upturned faces smiling, eager and cheering at me. I could almost hear the heady surge of applause, the whistles, cries for more. _Encore!_

“ _John_ ,” came the sharp voice in my ear, “do come on, now. Your legions of imaginary fans shall just have to wait.”

Red-cheeked, I followed my friend backstage. 

The area was narrow, with the painted backdrop to one length of it and a solid wall upon the opposite side. The floor was planked, and Holmes stooped to study each section in turn. At one point he rubbed his finger across the board and brought it to his face. He looked up at the roof and checked the accessibility of the exits. From a corner closest to the dressing rooms, he crouched to pick up something small. He stood, then, and nodded that I should accompany him along the nearest corridor.

There were five doors there which lead off to the dressing rooms. Holmes knocked at the first, but receiving no answer unlocked it with one of his keys. The room inside was mostly bare, save for two large tables with several lamps, a number of high stools and a metal pole rack along one wall for clothes. The second room along the corridor was similarly furnished. At the third, my friend knocked again, whereupon we heard a small scurry from within. Holmes looked sideways to me.

“At last,” said he, softly. “I was beginning to fear that we were alone here with the rats.”

The door opened inwards to reveal two gentlemen, quite disparate. The elder with his hand upon the grip appeared to be a stage help, being dressed in threadbare overalls and with a tool belt at his side. The younger man further inside was sat slumped upon a stool, one elbow propped, nursing a tumbler of dark liquid. He scowled out at us, annoyed perhaps at the unwelcome interruption of his conversation.

“Hello,” said the older fellow. “Who are you, then?”

Holmes introduced us both. “And you must be Samuel,” said he. “How is your cough, these days?”

The stage hand stared back at my friend.

“Here now,” he said, “who have you been talking to about me? Who's been gossipin' about my cough? And I've never seen you before in my life, so how'd you know who I am?” He scratched at his head. “But yes, I am Samuel. Samuel Black.”

“By the volume of fresh cigarette butts, all of the same brand, which are dotted around a particular spot at backstage,” replied Holmes. “That is the spot where you stand, is it not? And anyone of your years and so heavy a smoker must also be in possession of a troublesome cough. It is quite elementary. Would you be willing to talk to us about last night?”

“Well, you're right about the cough,” said Samuel. “Keeps me up at all hours, it does, and first thing in the morning, arh, it's a horror.” A pained expression came over his face. “But sir, I don't know nothing as what happened to Buster, I swear it. I never saw him, and that's the great puzzle of it.”

“And yet he must have ended up somewhere,” my friend replied, “for the whole audience saw him go through those slats. Do you have any idea where he might have gone? What were you doing for that time?”

“I was _watching_ , sir,” said the stage hand, indignantly. “Watching and smoking. And I never took my eyes off the curtain. Because what else is there to look at back there, after all? After a while I checked the time and saw that the act was over, so I went off to get on with my work. And then a little after that I came to learn about Buster. I do hope nothing ill has befallen him, he is such a polite and friendly lad.”

“The acts here need to keep to strict times?” Holmes enquired.

Samuel nodded. “Oh yes, sir, they do, and they never alter. Anyone here can confirm that for you.”

“May I see your watch? Thank you. That will do. Is your wife keeping well, Samuel?”

The old fellow gawped. 

“Yes, she is most well, thank you for asking. But how...?”

“Never mind,” said my friend. “What else can you tell me about Buster?”

“Well, not much,” replied Samuel, looking guiltily around to the fellow on the stool there behind him. He shuffled further forward, motioning that we two should follow out to the hall. Samuel shut the door softly then, that our new scowling friend might not hear.

“Buster and Thomas do not get along,” whispered Samuel, “so I should rather say what I am about to out of his hearing, if you catch my meaning.”

“I see,” said Holmes. “And Thomas is... the juggler?”

“That's right indeed,” replied Samuel. “And he and Buster were in a bit of a row over a young lady. They are both keen on her, and trying to get in with a chance at her.” The old stage hand laughed and swiped his hand across his face. “Funny taste in women, that's all that I can say for the pair of 'em. She don't give either of 'em the time of day.” He gave another short laugh, then turned serious. “That's not to say that Thomas did anything bad, oh lord, no, I did not mean to say that. I'm just telling you what is what around here. I have always liked Buster, and he seemed awful happy in himself despite the arguments.”

“Who might the young lady be?” Holmes enquired.

Samuel shook his head. “You had best speak with Thomas about that,” said he.

The dressing room door wrenched itself inward, making the three of us start.

“Now, all I can _hear_ ,” said the juggler, his face fraught with rage, “is _Thomas_ this and _Thomas_ that, despite all of your pretend whispering. You are trying to drop me in it, Samuel, is that it?” He waved a fist in the older man's face, as the poor fellow stuttered and denied. 

Thomas stared at Holmes. “Get out of here. You've no business snooping around. I'm not sitting still for your ridiculous questions. You're not the police.” 

“I have every business, as I have permission from the Chairman,” my friend said quietly. “A man is missing, Mr. Throw. It would be wiser to co-operate.”

“Co-operate, my arse,” said the uncouth man. “I am going to lunch, and to hell with the lot of you.”

He pushed roughly past us and charged out toward the exit.

“Holmes, should I...?” I said.

“No,” said my friend, “let him go. We shall catch up with him later, when his hot head has had chance to cool down. Thank you, Samuel, you have been very helpful. We may come back to you again.”

As the stage hand ambled off towards the main hall, Holmes turned to me.

“Three down and two to go,” said he, nodding to the dressing rooms. “We shall surely be in better luck with these.”

And he raised his fist and knocked upon the fourth.


	4. Call Me Clarence

“Holmes,” I whispered as we waited, “did you not find Samuel's testimony to be suspicious?”

“I did not,” my friend replied, his hand upon my shoulder. “The fellow is quite innocent, I am sure of it. I have a theory of my own that I shall put to test quite shortly, but I think it is worthwhile to check all of the strands if only for interest's sake.”

“Interest's sake?” I hissed. “That poor little chap might be dead in a gutter somewhere...”

“I believe it to be unlikely,” said Holmes. “John, calm down and hush. Someone is coming.”

The door of the dressing room was unlocked by its occupant and pulled slowly inwards. We were expecting to be greeted, but whoever was within had already retreated out of sight. Holmes glanced at me, his eyebrow raised. He stepped forward and pushed open the door a little wider.

“Good afternoon,” said he, catching sight of our mysterious quarry. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

I entered the room behind my friend to realise that we had just joined party with the singer known to London and beyond as 'Camberwell Clarence'. Already dressed in dapper stage wear of black tails, a high collared shirt with red bow tie and fine-chained monocle, blond wavy hair sleeked back, Clarence nodded and waved that we should be welcome to take a stool.

“I know who you are,” said our host. “The walls here are terribly thin.”

Holmes looked oddly at the singer.

“You are a male impersonator,” said he, the realisation dawning.

“I am afraid so,” said Clarence, in an amused tone. Her voice was soft and lilted, definitively female; her long limbs and features handsomely androgynous. “My real name is, in actual fact, Clarita. Does it make a difference?”

“It makes absolutely none,” said my friend. He took her gloved hand briefly. “We should like to speak with you regarding Buster, Miss Clarita.”

She leaned forward in her chair.

“Call me Clarence,” said she, “while I am in costume. Otherwise it all feels too bizarre.”

I watched the proceedings, entertained and rather admiring of the young lady's poise and grace. She turned a small smile to me then as if reading my thoughts.

“I admit that it is a little early in the day for me to be so,” she said, indicating her male garb, “but I feel quite certain that my friends here would treat me differently if I turned up for work in a mass of skirts and with my hair tied _just so_ and a bonnet on my head. They know and relate to me as Clarence now. I declare that I far prefer it.”

Holmes's mouth quirked without any sharp rejoinder. It appeared to me that he wholeheartedly approved of the lady's eccentricity. He leaned forward.

“What can you tell us?”

Clarence sighed, plucked a cigarette from a tin upon the dressing table and carefully inserted it into a silver filigree holder. She lit it tentatively, drew upon it.

“A great nothing,” said she with a sweep of her hand. “For I was in here all of the while. I saw nothing and I heard less. There. That is of how little use I am to you, Mr. Holmes. I had already played my turn and was resting before I should be called for my second performance. The first I knew of any of it was darling Pipsqueak banging on my door and asking if Buster was with me.”

“Did Buster have any reason to be with you?” my friend asked softly.

Clarence smiled sadly. She picked up a small folded paper and passed it to Holmes. He opened it and read:

_“...I adore you quite absolutely and need to see you outside of the hall. Meet me for dinner at seven on Saturday evening. Please say yes. Ever yours, Buster...”_

Holmes looked up.

“Was the young man's affection returned?”

Clarence shook her head.

“I am afraid not,” said she. “Not in that way. I do love him, but only as a friend. I did try to tell him, but he would keep on sending me these flowers and notes. It is a shame, for we have a lot in common and our conversations are delightful fun. This sort of thing always gets in the way.”

“Thomas the juggler is an admirer, also,” said Holmes.

Clarence winced. “Yes,” she said. “And I wish that it were otherwise. He can be brutish. And he says cruel things to Buster. I think it is because of me, otherwise why should he waste time with such pettiness? I am baffled as to why either of them can even think of me _that way_ , seeing as how they only ever see me in male costume. It is the enigma of it, I suppose. The contradiction of what lies beneath.”

I confess that the next moment may have been the one and only time where I glanced with the remotest interest at a woman's chest. The lady was clearly wearing some form of cloth binding beneath her shirt, for the bosom was flat and unremarkable. 

“Have you ever known Thomas to be inclined to physical violence?” my friend enquired.

She hesitated, reluctant. 

“He is impulsive,” she replied slowly, “and hot headed. I have seen him throw punches on occasion when he is thwarted. But never to anyone _smaller_ than he, Mr. Holmes. I do not think that he would be capable of committing a serious crime.” She rubbed her nose thoughtfully.

I saw Holmes's attention caught by a small dark stain upon the floorboarding by the table. He leaned over to take a closer look.

“This is blood,” said he, looking up. “A recent mark.”

“I pricked my thumb yesterday on a bouquet of roses,” replied Clarence. “And I was slow to find a handkerchief.”

The conversation continued in this way for several minutes. With seemingly little of any direct relevance emerging, I found my attention drifting to the thin pile of song sheets on the chair to my right. I idled through them, realising them as ribald ditties that the young singer must be rehearsing currently for inclusion in her act: _“Up Behind the Lady's Garden”; “Some Toffers Are Bigger Than Others”; “I Have a Naughty Secret”._ I lay the stray sheets quietly back onto the stack.

Holmes stood up.

“Thank you, Clarence,” said he, “that is all for the time being. I would appreciate it if you could remain in the building for at least the next hour while the Doctor and I continue our search.”

“Of course.” She searched his face pleadingly with a pair of green and lustrous eyes. “I do hope that you find Buster safe, Mr. Holmes.”

I glanced at my watch as we exited the dressing room. It was a little after two o'clock. Although Holmes had professed an inkling as to what might have taken place the previous night, to my mind we had made no progress at all, save for the rather obvious fact that the hall was rundown and one of its employees was an ill-tempered boor. The last door along the hallway took us to a short meeting with the 'Father' section of The Three Slapshoes, who declared a similar lack of awareness of anything, everything and all and sundry. The fellow was most anxious that his act should not miss a night's work, and implored us that we should locate his diminutive colleague as soon as possible.

“It is as if Buster felt the compelling urge to dissolve himself into a million fragments of fairy dust,” my friend said whimsically as we retraced our steps towards the stage. He thrust himself into the crawl space beneath the trapdoor and ferreted around there for a minute. He withdrew, brushing down his trouser knees. “It is quite barren,” said he, “as I suspected.”

“What is your theory?” I asked, intensely curious by now.

In answer, he caught me by the hand and dragged me once more to the backstage, where he pointed down to the ancient boarding by way of nebulous explanation.

“There,” said he. “What do you see, John?”

I squinted.

“Loose planks?”

“No, look closer than that.”

I kneeled and squinted.

“A narrow line of dried mud.”

“ _Lines_ , John. Thin lines, _plural_. They are most suggestive. They are flaked rather than trodden in to the wood, therefore indicating that they are recent.”

I straightened up. “From a bicycle?”

He shook his head, irritated. “No, no, no. Pay attention to detail.”

“I certainly would, if any actually existed,” I replied, somewhat stung. “A cart, then.”

Holmes clapped my shoulder.

“Exactly, John. And see the smudging where the cart came to a halt just in front of the slats from where young Buster was due to emerge.”

I rubbed at my moustache, still thoroughly bemused.

“Then who was wheeling the cart?” I enquired. “And how is it that old Samuel did not see it?”

Holmes looked at me as if I must be very slow indeed.

“Samuel did not see the cart, because Samuel _was not there_. And as for who was wheeling the cart, well, how about using your _logic?_ ”

I barrelled him against the wall.

“You are being obnoxious,” I said in a low voice. I grabbed a handful of him and nipped at his right earlobe with my teeth. He squeaked softly. “You are the detective, not I. Now, I would advise you to _hurry_ and do your best to solve this case, so I can get you home and see to you properly.”

He wriggled away, glancing around to reassure himself that we were still alone.

“I would rather you didn't bite me while I am working,” he complained. “You are usually more discreet.”

“Then stop being obnoxious,” I said. “And I am sure that this hall has seen far worse. Where to now?”

“The other hallway. Obviously,” said Holmes. “Please,” he added.

The far hallway extended to two well-packed storage rooms, which Holmes unlocked with his key set and set to examining. Half a dozen long rolled backdrops, many racks of glittering costumes, painted fascia boards and signs. A high turret of wooden chairs, a nest of wobbling dressing tables, a mannequin and an empty magician's wardrobe, all covered with thick dust. We wandered around discouraged by the debris. I pulled open a large sackful of batons, streamers and whistles, and rummaged through it disconsolately.

“Well, he is not here either,” I said. “Did you really expect him to be?”

“Quite possibly not,” Holmes replied. “The mud, remember.”

I sighed, exasperated.

“So, a cart was wheeled in from the outside with mud on its wheels. It still might have ended up in any of these rooms, Holmes. You are now saying that Buster was placed inside the cart?”

“No,” said my friend. He left the room suddenly, leaving me to extricate myself from a piled mess of circus wigs.

Holmes was pacing a zig-zagged route up and down the storage hallway, peering at the boards.

“There are numerous muddy lines here,” said he, “criss-crossing over the others. I think it is high time that we availed ourselves of the rear exit.”

“It certainly wouldn't be the first time,” I said dryly.

The rear door was already unbolted. We stepped out into the yard space, which was surprisingly spacious and surrounded by a six foot high brick wall. Small patches of grassy mud abounded, to the far side of one stretch being a double barred door leading out, I assumed, to the alley. To the other side stood several sturdy brick huts, each entry secured by a robust metal padlock.

“More storage,” I mused. “To catch the overspill from the other rooms, I expect.”

“I already checked there,” came a voice from behind us. “You'll be out of luck.”

“Pipsqueak,” Holmes exclaimed, “I was wondering when you might turn up. You were winning at cards and came away the richer by several pounds. Am I right?”

The fellow grinned sheepishly. He heaved his great bulk away from the door frame and walked up to us.

“Aye,” said he, “they didn't know what hit 'em.” He jingled his pockets. “Lovely.”

Holmes chuckled.

“You say that you've already checked the two huts. When was that?”

“Why, yesterday evening of course. 'Bout an hour after Buster had disappeared. I collared Samuel and borrowed his key. Just the usual junk in both of 'em.”

“All the same,” said Holmes, “I think that I should like to take a look for myself. By the way, Pipsqueak, what is your opinion of that juggler fellow, Thomas?”

Our friend laughed, stamped his boots in the mud.

“Thomas is a drunkard, a fool and a brute. Apart from that, we get on very well.” He eyed Holmes quickly. “You think that he is guilty of something to do with Buster?”

“I did not say that,” Holmes replied. “But he has a quick temper, which could bode ill for anyone who stands in his way.”

“Sure enough,” agreed the wrestler. “Although I am three times his strength, and so he does not speak out to me for he knows what he would get. Mr. Holmes, I see that you are about to unlock these hut doors. You are wasting your time.”

“We shall see,” said Holmes, and he fitted the smallest key of the bunch into its respective padlock. With a firm twist and a sharp push the door swung open.


	5. Ravenous

The brick hut was without windows. The three of us crowding the open doorway did very little to assist the spread of what scant natural light there was. Holmes motioned we stay back that he might step inside. The air smelled dank, of damp earth, something acrid. I peered around as best I could despite the gloom and was almost able to make out more props of the kind we had plucked through. But then there – off to one side – a small wheeled cart ladened almost to the rim with linens. Holmes caught sight of it the same time as I. He moved across to, peeled back one layer and then the next. Then rapidly, hauling sheet cloth and fabric out to the damp floor.

“Buster,” he said gently, his hand on something in the cart. “Buster.”

I held my breath, as did Pipsqueak Laughton, as we craned forward to hear a response.

A muffled chirrup as if from a kitten, and a soft rustle of material. A hand reached out from within the cart and clamped itself upon the edge. A head emerged, finally. It was too dark to see the expression, but Holmes was ready with soothing words and steady calm.

“Easy there, young fellow,” said he a moment later, “you have a nasty cut.”

“Was locked in,” came the high-pitched reply, slow and dazed, as likely due to being woken from sound sleep as the effect of injury. “ _Really_ frizzly cold. Banged and thumped, but no-one heard. Tried to keep warm and fell asleep. What time is it?”

“Mid-afternoon,” Holmes replied. He stroked the young man's hair. “How are you feeling otherwise? Are you able to stand?” He looked to the doorway. “Watson, we shall need you in here straight away.”

I hastened to the lad's side and brought him forward into the light to examine his head wound.

“You were dealt a blow hard enough to knock you out,” I told him. “But once we have it cleaned and patched and despatched you for some bed rest, you should be fighting fit in no time.”

Pipsqueak hoisted the lad into his arms and together we four returned inside, past the storage rooms and the backstage to an empty dressing room. Once there, we sat Buster down, wrapped tight in a warm blanket, while I hastened for clean water, cloths and a bandage roll. The wrestler procured a pastry and a cup of hot, sweet tea, and very gradually our young friend regained some colour in his cheeks.

“Really frizzly cold,” he repeated. “All night, too. And me wearing this silly costume.” He drew his legs up to his chest, shivering. His fingers patted tenderly at the bandage tied around his crown. “Ow. That's sore.”

With the room cleared of concerned friends and with just Holmes, myself and the oscillating Chairman, we seated ourselves around the little acrobat.

“You are safe now, Buster,” said Holmes. “Do you feel well enough to tell us what you know?”

Buster took a large mouthful of his pie and swallowed ravenously. We waited patiently while he savoured every morsel down to the crumb. Then he shrugged and tucked himself up further until only his tiny face peeped out from between the thick grey folds.

“I remember flying through the window as usual,” said he. “Only this time some fool had left a prop cart standing directly in my way. I couldn't have avoided it if I had tried. I whacked my head flat upon one of the handles. I ended up at the bottom of the cart, knocked out cold. Next thing I knew, I was in that filthy freezing hut with a great bundle of cloth squeezing the natural breath out of me. Now, I know I'm small, but hell's frizzling bells, Mr. Holmes, you'd have thought that whoever it was could've looked before dumping an armful.”

“Some people neither see, nor do they observe,” replied Holmes. “Thank you, Buster.”

My friend stood up and smoothed his waistcoat down.

“I shall be a few minutes,” said he. “Wait here for me.” And he vanished from the room.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes is a clever man,” exclaimed the Chairman to both or neither of us. “Clever, clever, clever! He knew just where to look, so he did! And now I shall not need my dancing girls tonight after all.” He rubbed his hands together.

“I think that perhaps you might, Mr. Lloyd,” said I, a little perturbed. “Buster here needs a sound day's rest before resuming any exercise.”

“Well, that's too bad,” bemoaned the Chairman. “For the Slapshoes are a popular act. But whatever you say. I suppose it is for the best, Dr. Watson. Whatever you say.”

“I wouldn't mind another one of those pastries,” said Buster. “Or a nice lie-down with this blanket. With more tea.” He smiled at me hopefully. “Pastry, tea and a pillow,” he said slowly, that I might better comprehend.

We had just gotten the lad re-settled with all that he could desire when Holmes charged back into the dressing room, a triumphant full force gale.

“Ha! Watson,” said he, “we are done here. A pretty little puzzle that did not take us very long.”

“That is wonderful news,” I replied. “Might you share it?”

My friend sat down upon a stool and lit a cigarette before addressing his small audience.

“Let us first eliminate Samuel from our line of enquiry,” he said. “He had not been the fellow manhandling the cart. For he made no mention of it, indeed he told us that the area was clear. What possible explanation, therefore, than the simple fact that his pocket watch was running fast by, shall we say, twenty minutes? Samuel would have shown up for his vigil before The Three Slapshoes had taken to the stage. The noise of the crowd was such that he might not easily discern one act from another. So he looked at his watch, and the minutes ticked by. Buster naturally did not appear, the trio still being in their dressing rooms at this point. When Samuel checked his watch again, the allotted time slot was seemingly over that he might return to his usual duties. He left the area. You will recall, Watson, that I enquired after Samuel's wife when last we spoke with him. A loving wife who cares for her husband and adjusts his wayward watch for him when he removes it the last thing at night, without his even having realised that it is wayward. I inspected the watch for myself and saw it already running some few minutes fast.

“At any rate, the acrobats took to the stage shortly after Samuel's departure. At this point, the junior stage hand – a charming fellow by the name of Wilkins – was in the middle of his shift work. He was in command of a prop cart, was wheeling it back towards the exit when he realised that he had forgotten to collect a pile of fabrics. He left the cart standing where it was, and returned to whichever of the dressing rooms. Meanwhile, Buster took his fated leap and met with the wrong end of a cart handle. The stage hand returned, arms laden, throwing the bundle into the cart without thinking to look. He then wheeled the cart out, with the unconscious Buster, to one of the huts in the yard, where he locked it up safe. 

“Perhaps one hour later, then, Pipsqueak checks both the huts – he sees and hears nothing out of the ordinary and assumes nothing untoward. The hut is locked again. By the time that young Buster comes to, the hall has shut and he has many solitary hours to while away before rescue.”

“That sounds about right,” declared Buster, lifting his head up from the pillow for one moment.

“Remarkable!” I exclaimed.

“Quite so!” agreed the Chairman, nodding vigorously.

Holmes smiled and bowed his head.

“It was a simple riddle in itself,” said he. “All of the clues were there.”

He stubbed out his cigarette and stood, beckoning to me.

“If you have finished with your charge, Watson, and are ready to depart?”

We shook hands with our new friends along the hallway and turned to leave.

“Mr. Holmes,” came a soft voice. “I should like to thank you once again.”

We turned around to see Clarence leaning against the frame of her open doorway, with her hands tucked inside her pockets.

“You are a gentleman,” said she with a small bow. “We shall not forget your kindness.” She hesitated, taking a fractional step forward as if she might wish to embrace my friend; but then thought better of it, a curious smile upon her face.

We were outside on the street in the persisting, listing drizzle before I turned to Holmes with a sulk twisting my mouth.

“Women find you irresistible,” I pouted. “Always.”

He laughed silently, his shoulders quivering.

“Now, why exactly do you suppose that is?” he enquired.

I rolled my eyes at him. “Because you are a handsome devil, and very charming when you want to be. Not to mention being the cleverest fellow who ever stood in shoe leather.”

His arm stole discreetly around me.

“You give me too much credit,” he said. “I am not always so clever. I would count one of my innumerable failings as being culpably slow to find a hansom in the rain. And for _always_ forgetting to carry an umbrella. Oh, but _there_ is a carriage, across the way. Come, John, let us run for it.”

Inside the cab we hunched together, our breath puffing white clouds out into the grey. Holmes, as was his nature, seemed to be already pushing the hall out from his mind to make way for the next casework – whatever and whenever that may be. Yet I found my thoughts irresistibly drawn to the Merry Ferret and its odd-pot of performers. I hoped that Buster might find true and reciprocal happiness, and that Clarence would prove successful in her unusual career, and yes, that the bad-mannered Thomas, likely now reclining with a pint jug, should learn to use his brain and heart in preference to his unruly mouth.

And then I felt the soft, insistent pressure of Holmes's hand upon my thigh, and I pushed the hall out from my mind to make way for baser musing. We each have our own priorities, after all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Close by his jaw down to his neck, he tastes of sweet vanilla. And his skin is most always clean and cool, except for now. For now is when my mouth sleeks strips across it and I can feel the palpitation of his throat. I run my tongue in jagged strokes, still yet resisting the need to draw or nip. (I do not know from where these strange desires might manifest, but here they are, regardless.)

He raises up onto his elbows.

“John,” he says, and that is all that he seems able to enunciate. 

“Yes,” I tell him. “Soon.”

His head is thrown back, his eyes are closed. I will never tire of how my lips, placed there, so, tickling, can make him arch and gasp. I push him down, anchor his wrists, for him to buck his hips, throw one tickle-haired leg around me. I lower my hand to bat gently at his prick, teasing remonstrance.

“It isn't a gear lever, John,” he protests.

And that is enough for me to swoop down and swallow him, kneading the sides of him, squeezing the flesh of him, drawing moans out of him. And his fingers are tugging in my hair, pulling me in ever tighter, encouraging, wanting, that I might scarcely breathe.

My hand is inbetween his cleft, warm, warmer, hot; seeking, stroking, pleasing him.

(Sometimes he will surprise me and flip me over, take control. He will apply the oil and sink into me, start the same cries from my lips as I am now snatching out from his.)

Most times I ask _What do you want?_ Some times I know _I know, I know._

And his eyelids flutter, and his breath is toothed and laboured, and I know just what it is he wants. 

And I lift my mouth from him and hoist his legs, and yes, _Yes_ , he groans.

And I lower my head and place my tongue to him, inbetween him, just there, so, right there. I run wet circles; he clenches and wails.

One finger massaging can bring him to glory. 

One finger crooked can make his eyes spark, his fists knot in my hair.

I do everything, because I know exactly what he likes and how.

Tonight he needs my tongue, my fingers (three), my teeth upon his tender flesh. The nubbing torment brings him on, _come on_ , tensing, flexing, _John_ , laving, friction, _now, please, now._

He shudders, one last shiver, watching intently as our woven hands tip me too, over, white threads on skin.

He reaches for his nightshirt and cleans us both unceremoniously. We kiss.

“My nipple hurts,” he says, although he does not sound aggrieved.

“And you squeal like a stuck pig,” I tell him, jostling his shoulder.

“The fire is dying out,” he informs me, and I feel a sense of deja vu before we nestle down to sleep.

For tomorrow is already here, and tomorrow – today – we shall be startled wide awake. But that is eight hours, one fire and a cold frost away, and we know nothing of it yet.


	6. A Delicious Delivery

I have never been an advocate of early morning interruptions, given that I am protective of my customary sleep regimen and of the fact that I share my bed with another fellow without apology. Early morning calls, therefore, when we are both still sound asleep or at least trying to be, irritate and alarm me. I am not certain as to how they affect Holmes. He is sanguine about visitors when they bring him casework and distraction.

At only a little after eight upon the morning after the affair at the Merry Ferret, then, we were broken from our rest by a belligerent peal upon the front door bell. A moment later we heard a rhythmic thumping against one of the panels.

“Who in the name of heaven could that be at this hour?” my friend muttered as he swung out from the covers to pull on last night's shirt and trousers. 

“Whoever it is, they are most impatient,” I replied, rubbing my face clear of sleep. “I hope that Mrs. Hudson is able to stall them for a minute.”

Holmes had drawn on his mouse-coloured dressing gown and was making for the stairs. I heard the patter of his slippers and the faint tones of our landlady from the ground floor hallway at her interception of our noisy guest. For several minutes there was silence save for the clicking shut of our sitting-room door. I strained my ears but could hear no further bedlam, so I stretched my legs out from the bed and began to dress. Once I had made myself more or less presentable, I descended to our quarters.

My friend was sitting at the breakfast table and eyeing with the gravest suspicion a most tremendous green foil wrapped gift basket.

“Was that all it was?” I glanced around the room. “A delivery?”

“Yes,” said he, perplexed. “With an anonymous card. The handwriting is unfamiliar to me.”

I picked up the small card from the table and read the blue-inked scrawl: _To Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street, With fondest regards._ I turned the card over. Type-printed in a bold upper case: CHUMLEY'S FRUITS – A DELICIOUS DELIVERY FIVE DAYS OF THE WEEK.

The basket contained a large quantity of luxuriously flaunted fruit. Some rosy apples and cherries, black grapes and green pears; a great many oranges.

“There are a lot of oranges,” I observed.

“The sender is desirous to keep us from scurvy,” said Holmes. “I do wish that I might have caught up with the delivery man. It is quite ridiculous.”

“Why is that?” I asked. “It is a kind thought from someone who wishes you well. Perhaps it is from Buster, or that Chairman fellow Lloyd, or even your old friend Pipsqueak.”

Holmes snorted.

“Pipsqueak would never think of sending anyone a basket of _oranges._ ”

“Where is Chumley's?” I asked.

“They have two premises, as I recall,” replied my friend. “One on the Axelthorpe Road, the other at Belgrovia's Fresh Produce Emporium.”

I shook my head slowly in amused disbelief.

“You amaze me,” I told him.

He smiled. “I make it my business to amaze you.”

He plucked a specimen of each fruit from their colourful tissue-paper bed and carried them across to his chemistry table. He lined up an array of instruments before him.

“You are testing the fruit for poison?” 

“Yes. Merely out of interest. I am aware that there are a number of criminals who would be the happier if I were disposed of. A corrupted citrus is a rather roundabout method of doing it, I grant you.”

I picked up several of the fruits and examined them at close hand. I sniffed tentatively, peered for scratch marks or piercing. They all appeared quite legitimate. My heart had momentarily risen at the mouthwatering thought of fresh fruit salad. Now it seemed as if the basket might be destined for the dustbin unless the generous giver might be identified.

“Well, we could speak with Chumley's about it,” I said, retaining a sliver of faint hope.

Our landlady had entered the room to build up the fire. I realised only then just how cold it was, and shivered violently. The good woman tutted softly as she spotted my friend's activity, but she said nothing save for a rueful glance and smile in my direction. As the first flames flickered and sprang into life I thanked her for her kindness and settled down beside the warmth.

“Breakfast will be in fifteen minutes,” said she. “Mr. Holmes, I do hope that you will not be inspecting my bacon and eggs in a similar fashion.”

She had left us to ourselves when my friend set down his pipette with a grunt.

“Nothing,” said he. He sounded almost disappointed.

Holmes placed the basket to one side and no more was mentioned of it despite my frequent longing looks. My friend might have teased me had he noticed, but he was engaged in his own musings: a rearrangement of his library and a clearing of his desk drawers. (It always takes a month of scolding for him to even contemplate such tedium. I supposed that Mrs. Hudson had put a flea into his ear about the chaos.) 

I felt him by my side; he knelt and kissed my cheek.

“You are impossibly sentimental,” he said.

I looked up questioningly.

He held out the dried red rose that months before I had tucked in between the pages of Winwood Reade's 'Martyrdom of Man'.

“Oh,” I said, smiling, blushful, “you found it.”

“I find everything eventually,” he replied with a wink. He placed it tenderly back into the volume. “Mrs. Hudson informed me in the hall that she had to rescue our young Wiggins earlier this morning.”

“What?” The sudden switch in conversation rendered me uncomprehending. “Wiggins? Rescue him from what?”

“His elder brother, by all accounts.” Holmes joined me by the fire, the bookshelves forgotten. “A tall, strapping lad some ten years older. He was marching Wiggins in a nelson hold and boxing his ears in a fury about some domestic trifle. Wiggins was hollering his head off.” My friend chuckled. “Mrs. Hudson was out there like a shot to remonstrate with the lad. He took off but leaving Wiggins very sorry for himself. Still, the little chap got himself a biscuit and a glass of lemonade out of it.”

“The poor boy,” I tutted. “What must his home life be like. My own brother and I rarely ever disagreed.”

“Whereas Mycroft and I argued all the time,” my friend said cheerfully. “We did tend to use our brains rather than our brawn, it goes without saying. But that is not to assume that Mycroft did not occasionally deserve a sound punch on the nose. Ah, Mrs. Hudson, _there_ you are again at last. Watson and I were about to faint away from inanition.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I suppose we should have considered ourselves fortunate that we made it to the following morning before a secondary assault upon the front door. This next came at the more tolerable time of ten-thirty, whereupon our landlady stoically wheezed up to our room with yet another large box.

“Oh dear me, what now,” said my friend, rising up from his desk to receive the bowed gift.

“Whatever it is, it is heavy,” replied Mrs. Hudson, long suffering.

I lifted the ribboned tag to take a closer look. Again, the identical anonymous scrawl: _Mr. S. Holmes Esq., 221B Baker Street, With the greatest affection._ Upon the back: YARFORD'S OF LONDON, PURVEYOR OF FINE CHEESES.

“You have cheese, Holmes,” I informed him. “With the greatest affection, apparently.”

“Damn it all,” said he. “First fruit, and now cheese. Do I look as if I am in such a great need of fattening up?”

“Yes,” I said, “but that is beside the point.” I peeled back the covering wrap. “There are biscuits too. Goodness me.” I moved towards the fire. “Does the handwriting not seem at all familiar to you?”

“No,” my friend replied, scowling at the wheel of Stilton. “Why ever do they not sign their name? I shall simply have to pay a visit to either or both of these establishments and make enquiries.” He looked at me anxiously. “It does not bother you? The message in the card?”

I shook my head. “Not particularly,” I said. “It may be quite innocent. It is not as if they are sending you gold cuff-links or diamond tie clips. I personally would not dream of wooing anyone with a cheese.”

Holmes went alone to Yarford's the first moment after lunch. He was away for several hours, and upon his return his expression told me that he had not met with much success.

“They refused to provide a name,” said he, throwing himself into his chair. “And I tried at Yarford's _and_ Chumley's. Customer confidentiality or some such twaddle. All they would tell me was that it was a young fellow who placed the order. Of average height and build, smartly but not overly dressed. That could be almost anyone, John.”

“It rules out our friends Buster, Lloyd and Pipsqueak at any rate,” I said. A thought struck me. “Dear me, you don't suppose that –?”

Holmes waved it away. “If it is she, then she will soon tire of wasting her shillings,” he said. “In the meantime, we have a veritable banquet to work our way through, for I am sure you have no intention of returning the either of them.” He peeped at me slyly.

“I like fruit, I like cheese and I like biscuits,” I said, beginning to laugh. “You do the math.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Gruyere was delicious. The Port du Salut was even better. The black grapes complemented everything to perfection.

“If your secret admirer might send us next a generous basketful of nuts and perhaps a few bottles of fine wine, then we shall be fed for a month,” I told Holmes, as I patted my full stomach later on the same day.

That evening, I took the opportunity to take out a sheet of wrapping paper and to parcel up the gifts that we had purchased for the unborn babe. Two weeks and my friend should find himself an uncle; a title which he professed to look forward to with some trepidation. “You will be an uncle too, along with me, John,” he had told me kindly. You see, now, how he always considers these smaller details, realising how deeply I feel upon the matter and how much that I appreciate the thought. Sherlock Holmes always was a great man. Now he is a good one, too.

These warm sentiments notwithstanding, I was feeling less charitable by the next morning when a third delivery came our way. Two dozen long-stemmed red roses, in silvery purple paper tied with flowing satin ribbon. _For Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street. I hope to see you very soon. CC._

“CC!” I exploded. “That woman. I knew it was she. Red roses indeed.”

Holmes held on to the bouquet as if he was not quite sure what he should do with it.

“Alas, neither nuts nor wine,” he said. “I am sorry, John.”

“Sorry for what?” I huffed at him. “That the gift is an inedible one, or that the wretched woman has sent you red roses?”

“Both?” he suggested. “I shall forward them to Sophronia,” he added by way of mollification.

“Forward them or burn them or do what you will,” I replied. “This has gone on quite long enough. Tomorrow it _will_ be cuff-links or tie clips, and then...and...”

“And then your rage shall be the terror of the earth,” Holmes ended for me. “John, calm down, I shall somehow relay a message to the delusional lady that I am promised to another and therefore cannot accept her advances.” He shrugged at my dismay. “That seems the most effective route, does it not?”

“I suppose,” I said. “Although please do be tactful about it. I cannot get over the forwardness of it all. It should be the other way about. In theory, at any rate. It is all topsy-turvy.”

My friend evidently found the situation amusing and more than a little flattering, for he lay the flowers down with a smile and some regret.

“What a lovely thing a rose is,” he began.

“Oh no, not that speech again,” I said, in despair. “Send the telegram. Now.”

I wondered if he would. 

I wondered if I should not pay a lone visit to the Merry Ferret under some other – quite innocent – pretext.

I find myself thoroughly predictable.


	7. Cease and Desist

Finding myself still flushed with pique that same afternoon, I invented a game of billiards at my club for the early evening. Fibbing recklessly, I informed Holmes that an old service friend, Walker, was in town for the week. Blast my poor memory! I had quite forgotten his request for the pleasure of my company over a few frames.

“I shall be back as soon as I can,” I told my partner.

“Take as long as you like,” Holmes had replied, “and enjoy your evening.”

I felt the guiltier as I dressed, for untruths were not at all my strong point nor, indeed, my inclination. And yet it needed to be done, for Holmes had not sent the telegram as he had promised that he would despite my prompting. I needed to put a stop to this, some way, somehow, discreetly.

The crowds were thinning by the time I ventured out, so managing to find myself a hansom with remarkably little trouble. It was strange for me to be so dressed and set for gallivanting without my friend there by my side. I turned my thoughts towards how best I ought to phrase the “cease and desist”. 

_Why, Clarence! How very lovely to see you here tonight! Yes, Mr. Holmes would be with me, but he is enjoying an intimate dinner with his sweetheart, and so, well, you know – gooseberry, and all that – ha ha..._

I threw in a broad wink for good measure. 

Good gracious, no, that would not do at all.

_Why, Clarence! What a surprise to see you here! Mr. Holmes? No, he is not with me. He is consulting with a police constable about a number of anonymous packages that he has received. Fruit! Possibly poisoned! Cheese! Ugh! Red roses! Yes, how repulsive. They are hoping to arrest the sender very soon._

Perhaps not.

_Why, Clarence! …_

I gave up. The appropriate words would surely spring more naturally to my lips if they had not been rehearsed to a state of blind panic thirty minutes before. I stared glumly out of the fogged hansom window and did my best to clear my head. 

The Merry Ferret was brightly lit and bustling when I descended from my carriage. The oak doors were drawn wide open and spilling yellow, orange, red onto the grey-black of the pavement. Around and just inside the entrance milled a large number of men: smoking, talking, laughing. Waiting for the next act? Or already finished with their entertainment for the night? I wondered idly. I could hear a raucous din from the main hall merely from standing where I was still in the street: A pounding of feet upon the floor, of heavy fists upon the tables, of heckling and cheering. I suddenly felt very out of place in my tailed suit and my top hat. Ignoring the stares from the fellows around me, I strode into the foyer.

“You'd surely be wantin' the opera, now, wouldn't ye, sir? Did ye take a wrong turnin'?”

I frowned at the speaker: a grizzled-looking man in a checker cloth cap.

“I am looking for a friend,” I informed him.

“Ha ha! Yea, I bet ye are,” said he, moving away with a vile leer. “Well, have fun dippin' yer biscuit, m'lord.”

The staff door was locked as I should have expected, given that the Chairman was at that moment holding order at his post upon the stage. I looked around in vain for a familiar face. The attendant at the ticket booth was unsympathetic to my plight.

“I don't care who you say you are,” said he. “You'll pay the same admittance fee as everyone else and that's final.”

The main hall was heaving and boisterous. By good chance I found a spare corner at a table on the outskirts, and took my place to nurse a small glass of beer and to wonder how on earth I might work my way to the backstage. For how was I to initiate any sort of conversation, when the object of my attention could neither see nor hear me? I did not recognise the current act upon the stage. Two middle-aged fellows in misshapen suits, strumming on banjos and dancing jigs. The crowd roared them on. I failed to see any appeal in their caper. There were two sets of stairs leading up to either side of the stage. Only by craning my neck could I observe that these were barriered to prevent trespass. This might well have proven to be a futile quest upon my part. I sat patiently through the torment of banjos and on to the next folly: a buxom German soprano of dubious merit, who attracted an outburst of coarse whistling.

I felt a sharp nudge to my ribs.

“Who ye waitin' to see, then?”

I turned and to my horror saw that it was Checker Cloth Cap from the foyer.

“A friend,” I repeated haughtily, my voice struggling to be heard above the hubbub.

“We all have _friends_ ,” said Cloth Cap. “Which'un, in par-tic-u-lar?” 

I winced at his mauling of innocent syllables. 

“Dawn't ye say _this_ huge squawlin' blunderbuss, fer the love of christ.”

“Camberwell Clarence,” I admitted, finally.

“Ye'll be waitin' a long time, then,” said he. “Clarence ain't on the bill tonight.”

“What?!” 

“Clarence ain't on the bill,” the man repeated slowly. “They switch their acts around, or didn't ye know that? Ye're very slow, for a doctor.”

“I am not slow,” I replied crossly. “Well, then, I suppose that Clarence is playing at another hall? Might you tell me where?”

“Oh ye're an eager beaver,” Cloth Cap chuckled. “He ain't playin' tonight. But he's havin' a measure at the Bless the Pigeon, or at least he might still be, if'n ye hurry.”

“And that is...?”

“It's a pub right close by here. Out the door, turn left, first left, then right, and second left, straight ahead a bit, turn right a-ways, and there y'are.”

“I'll find it,” I said, grimly. “Thank you for your trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” said the fellow.

I left my beer untouched and headed with great relief back to the street. I took a long breath of cool air while my ears readjusted to the soothing hum of passers-by. Then I turned to my left and recommenced my evening jaunt. 

I had to admit that this would be looking very odd, to show up at such a dive “by chance”. The best laid plans of mice and fellows... As it was, my route was fractionally circuitous, taking a right where I should have turned left, with the need to stop to ask for directions.

“The _Pigeon?_ ” said my anonymous saviour in disbelief. “But you are dressed for the opera! How very peculiar.”

“I am not,” I snapped, by now quite tired of the incredulity. “I am dressed for anything that I choose. For a gentleman has the luxury of liberties.”

I had no idea what on earth I meant by that, but my words had their desired effect. Within a minute I was standing outside the quaintly named Bless the Pigeon, swallowing my anxiety and determined to see this through. I pushed open the door.

The atmosphere was fuggish, wreathed in smoke. There was a strong smell of spilled beer and... mothballs? The light was dim but clear enough to see the patrons, who seemed an amiable, if disparate bunch, sat with their cards and dominoes, or curled in corners with their pals or sweethearts. I stepped through the thick clumps of sawdust into a clearing and looked around me. A sprawl of burly fellows surrounded the bar, whereas away by the white-painted walls were dotted the thoughtful men with their games. All corners of humanity seemed to frequent this happy house. A set of discreet alcoves close to the back were mostly unoccupied, save for one, and that, by extreme good chance, was the one which harboured Camberwell Clarence, still in male costume. I ordered myself a half-pint of ale and sidled my way towards the nook.

“Good evening, Clarence,” I said with a stiff nod. “What a surprise to see you here.”

The green eyes blinked up at me in amazement.

“Dr. Watson!” said she. “But you are the last person that I should expect to see.”

“I have no doubt,” I replied dryly. “Isn't it amusing how we start off at one place and end up at another. Have you been keeping well?”

“Very well, thank you.” Clarence ducked her head out from the booth. “You are alone?”

“I am afraid so. Mr. Holmes is busy with his... chemical experiments.”

“I see. Well then, if you are staying, would you care to join us?”

I saw now that we were not just the two, for further back into the booth there sat a small figure shrouded by gloom. A hand extended, which I accepted and cautiously shook.

Clarence smiled at me. 

“This is Abigail,” she explained.

“Good evening, Abigail,” I said solemnly. I sat down upon one corner of the bench, now thinking furiously as how to word my opening salvo. I should really have planned it after all.

“You are frowning awfully, Dr. Watson,” noted Clarence. “Is there something wrong? Have you not had a good evening?” She leaned forward to me in concern. “Can we help in any way?”

I bristled. I could not stop myself. _Red roses_. I plastered a bright smile onto my face.

“Yes, I am sorry that Mr. Holmes could not be here with me,” I said, jovially. “For you wished to see him, did you not?”

Clarence looked at me in puzzlement.

“For what reason?” she enquired.

I stared.

“In your little card,” I reminded her. “You said that you hoped to see Mr. Holmes very soon.”

Clarence stared back at me as if I had quite lost my mind.

“I did not write a little card,” said she. “In fact, I hardly expected to see either Mr. Holmes or yourself at all again, after we last spoke at the hall. Why should I?” She smiled. “Although you were both so wonderfully kind to us, as I believe I did say.”

“But --” I stopped. I glanced from one to the other of my companions. “You did not send a gift of any description?”

“A gift? Why no, of course not.” The young lady leaned further forward. “There was a gift sent in my name?” She sounded faintly aghast.

“But --” I said again. “But, well, yes. Or your initials, at least. 'C.C.'”

She shook her head. “I am so sorry, Dr. Watson, but that was not me.”

“Gifts from Chumley's and from Yarford's, and then the red roses,” I persisted.

“Dr. Watson, please believe me, I have sent nothing to either Mr. Holmes or yourself.” Her eyes widened. “Red _roses?_ ” She gave a sudden start of laughter. “Oh, Mr. Holmes has an admirer!”

“Yes,” I said, feeling very discombobulated. 

Clarence eyed me. She reached out, then, across the table, to take the hand of her companion. “And this is _my_ admirer,” said she, pulling lightly, bringing her young friend Abigail into view. “And I have no need nor want of any other.”

“I am happy for you,” I said softly. “And I do apologise for having brought the conversation around to this.”

“Do not apologise,” said she. “But I hope that you discover who it is. Mysterious gifts are not always a comfort.”

“A comfort is the least of what they are,” I admitted. “I had better leave you now, my dear. A very good evening to you, and to you too, Miss Abigail.”

I arrived back at 221B well before eleven. Holmes had already retired to bed, which was not so very unusual given the long stretch of boredom of an evening alone. Within a few minutes I was climbing the stairs up to our room, where I found him, laying peacefully asleep. I undressed and crawled into the bed beside him.

“Did you win at Billiards?” His eyes had flickered open and were smiling at me.

“I thought you were asleep,” I scolded quietly. “And yes, I did.”

He chuckled. “You are a frightful liar, John.”

I remained silent.

“Did you at least get to dip your biscuit?”

Shocked, I sat up straight in the bed.

“How...? How did you hear that? Someone told you? _Pipsqueak_ told you.”

He rubbed a cold foot against my shin.

“Nobody told me,” said he. “Think, John.”

“Think about what?” I stared down at him. He was laughing silently. “Oh my _god_ , Holmes, that Cloth Cap fellow was _you_. You are dreadful and impossible. Take your icy foot off my leg.”

He rolled back, laughing openly now.

“I knew that you were not going to Billiards, so I anticipated where you might end up instead. I enjoyed choosing my disguise while you were upstairs dressing yourself in your fine suit. I slipped out before you, and I had plenty of time to wait. You didn't disappoint me, John.”

“Dreadful,” I repeated. 

“You did not even query it when I called you 'doctor'. Well, well, I suppose it simply did not register. Anyway. I knew that Clarence was not performing that evening, but I had spoken with friend Pipsqueak who kindly informed me as to where she should be.”

“Holmes,” I said, shaking him, “it was not she who sent the gifts or wrote the card!”

“I know,” he replied. “Once I had clarified certain details with Pipsqueak who, I might tell you, is the most broad-minded and delightful of fellows. I am now aware that Clarence has not the remotest interest in the opposite sex, and is rather in fact very deeply in love with a young thing by the name of Abigail.”

“Yes,” I said, “I met Miss Abigail too. I am very sorry for messing everything up.”

“You did not mess anything up,” said Holmes, pulling me the closer to him. “Together we have ascertained that it was not Clarence. In fact, I declare that I now know the true identity of the sender.”

“Who is it?” I nuzzled into him, inhaling deep breaths of his calm. “Who do I have to punch now? Damn it all, Holmes, I believe that my jealous streak is even worse than yours.”

He laughed again.

“No punching permitted under any circumstances, John. I shall tell you tomorrow, once I have confirmed the detail with the culprit.”

I supposed that we should have to see about that.


	8. Tidying Up

The following morning was chill enough to find us entangled as if with octopus limbs beneath the blankets. If we did not see snowfall before the new month then I should be much surprised. I felt reluctant to stretch, to be unsprung from this comfortable coil wrapped across a warm body. I yawned and wriggled, resettled my head. It was enough to wake my friend.

“No,” said he, “it is too cold.”

“Too cold for what?” I asked, pressing my nose into his chest. “It was not a proposition. It was a yawn and a wriggle.” 

The distant clattering of cutlery and china told us that Mrs. Hudson was already in the midst of preparing breakfast. The tempting thought of a heaping plateful of eggs and savoury bacon strips was almost enough to cast me out into the frigidity. The second thought, that of a pot of steaming hot coffee, was the deciding factor.

“Get up,” I commanded, as I wielded my sponge of cold soapy water at the basin. “I want breakfast. And then I want you to tell me the name of your annoyingly persistent _amour_.”

“I will get up,” said Holmes, “but don't you dare to throw that wet sponge at me.”

October mornings are far more tolerable when you have a blazing fire and a mounded dish of delicious things to eat before you. I should say that the first cup of coffee is a pleasure close to bliss. I spread a knife of butter onto my toast and watched my friend as he hunted disconsolately around his desk. At length he produced a folded paper, tucked inside which was a small sealed envelope. He brought these to the breakfast table and laid them before me. To his own side he placed a blank telegraph form.

“There,” said he.

“You forgot to post your letter,” I mused. “Why did you not mention that we were out of stamps?”

“John, just read the correspondence that I replied to,” said Holmes, “and never mind about the stamps.”

I peered at the embossed single sheet.

“ _Lord and Lady Carstairs and their daughter Catherine should be delighted..._ ” I read aloud. I stopped. “This is your invitation to that Halloween Costume Ball,” I said. I tossed the paper back onto the table. “You are certain, then? How old is the young lady?”

Holmes sat down and drew the dish of eggs toward him. “Yes. And she is not yet nineteen. I have met her briefly, on perhaps two or three occasions when addressing business with his Lordship. I vaguely recall her twittering away to me regarding her alarming and quite frankly _onerous_ collection of jelly moulds. Although heaven knows what I said in return that should have encouraged her to think so favourably of me as a potential suitor.”

“And the smart young fellow who placed the orders at Chumley's and Yarford's was, I suppose, their butler or messenger boy acting upon Miss Catherine's request.”

“Evidently. And now I must write my telegram which should settle this matter.” 

He picked up his pencil and began scribbling away. He looked up at me in mischief.

“I shall, of course, invite you to the wedding, John.”

I burst into laughter.

“You are too kind,” I told him. 

Holmes folded the completed telegraph form and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket.

“I had better not forget _this_ ,” he said.

And so at length we finished our breakfast. At a break in the bleak weather my friend made his departure to the telegraph office. I sighed at the fresh mess that he had made of his desk. I re-stacked his notebooks, shuffled his papers and replaced his pens into their pot. He had left one of his drawers a part way open, and I reached out to push it shut. Something discreetly caught my eye; I frowned, tugged back again that I might more clearly see. 

I recognised it all too well. My heart sank then a little, darkly.

I moved to my chair by the fire and took up my pipe, to charge it with shag and to smoke and to think.

When Holmes returned from his short outing I was deep within myself. It took two greetings before I even registered his presence.

“John,” said he, “whatever is it, you look as if the roof fell in.”

“I do not know,” I replied. “Perhaps it has.”

At his querying expression I pointed across to his desk.

“I was tidying for you,” I said. “And I saw _it_ inside one of the drawers that you usually keep locked.”

“You saw _what?_ ” Holmes enquired, irritated. “And why were you tidying?”

“The morocco case,” I replied.

“Oh.” He looked at me sharply. “I have not touched it in a long while, John.”

“How long?”

He hesitated. “A... while. Many months.”

“ _Months?_ ” I was shocked. “This year, then? When? And why? I thought that we were past all of this, Holmes.”

He threw up a hand in aggravated embarrassment, defensive and cornered.

“We were. We _are_. Sometimes it is a struggle, John. I struggle, and it helps. _Helped_.”

“What did it help?” I asked, upset. “Sit down, Holmes, please don't pace.”

He sat reluctantly. 

“Back then, when I needed to forget,” he said finally. “It blotted things out. But they came back anyway, and so I had to _think_ my way through them. Let us not talk of it. I have not opened the case in months and I have no intention of opening it again. Please believe me.”

“I want to believe you,” I said. “But if that is so, then why do you not throw it away, dispose of the contents?”

He shrugged, helpless. “I do not know. I am sorry.” He stood and walked to his desk, pulled out the neat case and thrust it towards me. “Here, then.”

“It is not for me to do,” I said softly. “The decision needs to be yours, and when you are not feeling under any obligation to appease me.”

He exhaled heavily. Replacing it carefully within the drawer he returned to my side, where he sat upon one arm of my chair and leaned in.

“Then I shall do it later,” said he. “For I hate to see you so disturbed.” He kissed the top of my head; caressed my shoulder. “You are what keeps me sane, John.”

I covered his hand with one of mine and squeezed.

“Did you send the telegram?” I asked.

“Oh, that. Yes. And I was tactful and polite. As I _always_ am,” he added. “John, don't smirk.”

It was the closest that we had come to a recognisable argument for a considerable time, and I remained shaken. I had been sorely tempted to accept the case from my friend and to do away with it, that we might never again harbour that shadow within our home. If I had done so, would Holmes in time have come to resent it? Resent me, which would be worse, for declaring his weakness and forcing control? Better that I trust him, for I believed that he would never willingly deceive me.

As was our habit, after any altercation, major or minor, with resolution – or at least as damned near to it – we found ourselves in quiet and intimate repair. In this moment it was Holmes who laid me out upon his bed, the door locked and yes, what of it.

“You always scold when I ask this of you of a morning,” I whispered up into his mouth.

“Be quiet,” said he, pressing down upon me, “I know that, and I do not care.”

His tongue is busy at my throat while I find purchase at his shoulders, sides and hips. He kisses an apology into the dimple of my neck. His fingers caress, my shirt a barrier, he pulls it clear and roves beneath: his touch that makes me arch and crave.

And now he lays himself upon me, moving, friction, while we tip tongues and breathe our need into each other's ear.

I want him bare, cannot stand these layers, nor this fabric, this restraint. I want to feel each bone-sharp angle; stroke every hair-pricked goosebump, in this frozen room. And that should take a devil's age, and I do not care.

And we stifle our moans as we wrest with the other, and yet, somehow, control our need, for Holmes says that all the same we should not give over _so completely_ at this hour. And of course I disagree, and of course I do my best to persuade him otherwise. And he promises me _Tonight_ , so we make do with the little _now_ and emerge thirty minutes later, dishevelled, loose, untucked.

“See, London remains just as we left it,” I tell him. “It could have gotten on quite well for twenty minutes more.”

“That is hardly the point, John,” he replies. “Really, hardly the point.”

Apt enough, then, that the afternoon should bring along with it two deliveries, each a surprise in their own fashion. 

The first arrived at three o'clock, requiring a signature at the door and brought up by Mrs. Hudson, who carried with her a defeated expression and, in front of that, a dark-ribboned box. She set it down before my friend, who regarded it in disbelief.

“This one was heavier than the rest all put together,” complained our landlady. “I rather wish that they would just send a cheque instead.”

Holmes slit the box lid with his knife and opened a flap to peer inside. Upon doing so he glanced up to me, amusement writ across his face.

“Come here and take a look,” said he.

Inside were bottles of Port and smaller ones of ale; a fine Scotch whisky and an expensive Champagne Cognac.

“I do not see why you are smiling,” I grumbled. “Miss Jelly Mould is undoubtedly outstaying her welcome.”

“I think not,” Holmes replied. “John, before you get your hackles up, read the card.”

“ _To Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. With grateful thanks and appreciation for your assistance in finding Buster. From your friends at the Merry Ferret, Lambeth_ ,” I read aloud. “Ah. Well. How very lovely, then.”

“And this card is in Pipsqueak's handwriting,” said Holmes. “Replete with ink smudges. My word, he has good taste in spirit, though. Your wish was granted after all, John, see. Now all we need are the nuts.”

“You are the nut,” I told him, affectionately. “This has been quite the week, all told.”

It was about to become more eventful yet.

At a little after half-past five, a telegram arrived. Holmes did not open it immediately, being preoccupied with his monograph upon the interpretation of muddy bootmarks. He raised his head an hour later, recalling that which sat unopened upon the table. He muttered of trifles, of unwelcome interruptions, of why could he not be left to work in peace, and –

“John,” he said, scanning the contents of the telegram. “Collect our coats, and quickly now, for we must be off.”

“Off? Where to?”

“To brother Mycroft's,” said my friend. “To offer our calming influence and distraction while he frets himself into a knot. Sophronia has entered early labour.”


	9. Full House

All of the rooms at the front of Mycroft's house were lit as we approached it from the road. A tall dark figure flitted past the drawing room window and then back upon itself, as if it had been pacing for a considerably long while. Holmes rang the bell. A few moment's pause and the door was opened by the maid. Recognising us with a smile, she allowed us entry.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” said she, “it is so very good to see you. I shall inform the Master that you are here.”

Mycroft Holmes was with us in a second.

“ _Sherlock_ , there you are. I thought you must be out of town or the country or both, you took so long to arrive. I am frantic. Forgive me. Dr. Watson, good evening.”

“Mycroft, do take a breath and relax,” said my friend, “we are here now. How is Sophronia?”

The elder Holmes released a pained smile.

“She is well, I think. I hope. The physician is with her, as is the nurse, as is _also_ her mother who is staying with us for a while. It is a pandemonium. I hear noises every so often. They will not allow me in. How long does it all last, Doctor? I cannot bear it.”

“It varies,” I replied. “But a little longer than would be average, seeing as how it is Sophronia's first child. When did the labour begin? How far apart are the contractions?”

“I suppose four hours ago, but goodness me, as for the contractions I have no idea,” Mycroft waved his hands towards the ceiling. “They are all in there, and they tell me very little except all is proceeding as expected and to go away.”

“Sit down, Mycroft, and take a glass of brandy before you hyperventilate,” said Holmes. He glanced at me. “John, we would appreciate it if you might obtain an up-to-date report. Thank you.”

So despatched up the stairs, I spoke to my fellow physician, an aged, amiable fellow who nonetheless stalled me outside the door to shake my hand. I learned that his name was Humphreys and that he had been in service to the late senior Holmeses until 'their unfortunate demise'. A dozen curious questions swirled around my mind then, and yet I reined them to enquire about the forthcoming addition to the family. The contractions were ten minutes apart. We should be informed when the birth was imminent. No, no additional assistance was required at the present, but thank you kindly, Dr. Watson.

I returned to the drawing room to relay the news.

“Ten minutes?” said Mycroft, his brow furrowed. “Is that satisfactory?”

I smiled. “It is progressing that way, Mycroft, yes. Please do not worry.” I looked at him closely. “You have lost weight, I think? You are looking very well.”

Mycroft smiled slightly, nodded, pleased. “Thank you, yes, fourteen pounds since last I saw you. Through _worry_ ,” he added, frowning again. “You are fortunate that you will never have to go through such an endurance test, Doctor.”

I smiled through the twinge and said nothing.

“What will the name be, if it is a girl?” I asked.

“Zylphia,” Mycroft replied. “My wife is fond of it and I have no objection.”

Holmes snorted loudly.

“Yet another name that sounds like a contagion,” said he, thrusting a third-full whisky tumbler into my hand. “I hope that for the child's sake it is a boy.”

“Sherlock, I called you here for _comfort_ , not torment,” Mycroft replied, easing himself back upon the plush sofa. “Have you eaten yet this evening? No? Well, then, I shall ask Cook to prepare a meal for you both. It is the least that I can do. Help yourselves to anything you like from the bar.” He fluttered his hand towards the table with the gasogene.

My friend smiled, watching his brother as he disappeared through the door bound for the kitchen.

“He is in a state,” he observed. “It is rather amusing.”

“Not remotely,” I said. I sipped at my drink and wandered the room with the intent of examining the paintings and the charming _objet d'art_. New pieces had been added since the time of our last visit. I hummed in appreciation at a particularly fine Pre-Raphaelite. Holmes came to stand behind me, digging his chin into my shoulder. 

“A poor copy,” he murmured.

“No, it is not. How can you possibly tell?” I twisted around to him. “You have the crudest ideas about art, Holmes.”

He huffed, wrapped his arms around my waist. We looked up at the Dicksee together.

“ _She_ needs to straighten up the shoulder of her dress,” said my friend of the young woman in the painting. “However, _he_ is very handsome, don't you think?”

“Well-favoured indeed,” I agreed. “He has your nose.”

“But he has your chin.”

“Ah, then _that_ would explain why he is so extraordinarily good-looking.”

We shuffled around to the next work of art, and from there on to the china display.

“This is all terrible,” said Holmes. “I would not eat a biscuit off any of them.”

“It is fortunate, then, that you do not have to,” came an annoyed voice from the doorway. “And do please stop all of that, I am back in the room now.”

We separated slowly.

“Mycroft,” said Holmes, “your plates are appalling.”

“As are your manners, Sherlock,” replied the elder brother. “Both of you, come and sit here by the fire that we might talk. Cook is preparing chicken, but it will be a little while I am afraid.”

And so it is when one is invited to sit by a fire and to strike up conversation, that one finds oneself at a profound loss for anything to say. For a gentleman such as Mycroft Holmes – solitary inside his governmental office, and even more so within the Quiet Room at the Diogenes – small talk was the most excruciating torture. But still, he had wanted us here, had sent a telegram, had desired our presence over that of any other. That alone spoke many volumes – a fact which I hoped that my friend might appreciate, sat hunched as he was with his cigarette, its teetering grey ash making dire threats at the rug.

“John wants children,” said he, then, as a stark non-sequitur. 

Mycroft looked at me in surprise.

“Is that so? Well, now.”

“I realise the impossibility,” I said, smiling slightly.

“Certainly a medical miracle as a natural occurrence,” agreed Mycroft Holmes. “Please do realise that Sophronia and I consider you as family, Doctor, and you will be as involved as fully as you like in the upbringing of little Zyl-- I mean to say, the child.”

“You would prefer a girl,” said Holmes. He caressed my hand softly as he spoke.

“I have no preference.” 

“That is indeed very kind of you, Mycroft,” I said, moved. “Sherlock and I should be delighted to help in any way possible, you must know that.”

We heard a muted wailing from a room upon the first floor. Mycroft winced and shifted, his limbs in a fidget.

“The waiting is quite the hardest thing,” he said, his eyes cast to the floor.

“Will you show us the nursery?” I asked.

Mycroft nodded acquiescence. We were led up the stairs to the landing and across to the opposite side from his wife. The nursery was spacious, painted a summery yellow with cloud-puff white rugs. An ornate crib stood to one wall, a large chest of drawers adjacent. Baskets of dolls, knitted blankets and cushions sat dotted around. The wide windows were draped with a set of handsome blue ruched curtains. I gazed around wistful at the charm of it all.

“We shall be adding many more items,” said Mycroft, “once the new nanny arrives. Sherlock, would you please go down and check with Cook as to how much longer dinner will be? She will be cross if she announces it and we are nowhere to be found.”

My friend did not look happy at being so instructed. He obeyed, reluctant, and so it was that I found myself alone with Mycroft Holmes, standing between the yellow and the blue and feeling ultimately awkward.

“It is exceedingly kind of you to--” I began.

“Yes, yes,” Mycroft waved away the platitude. “Now, Doctor, do tell me, what is all of this about?”

“I wish that you might call me John,” I said, “as 'Doctor' seems so formal.”

“Do not change the subject,” replied Mycroft. “I declare that you are becoming as bad as Sherlock upon that front. John.” He winced. “I am not usually given towards informality. But I shall try. Please answer my question.”

“I do not know how to answer it,” I replied honestly, “if 'it' relates to the subject of children. I accept that I shall never have them. Sherlock and I occasionally speak of it, but I see little point in reliving the discussion again.”

Mycroft stared hard at me.

“A more conventional approach would solve the problem... John,” said he. “Have you considered that.”

I stared back at him.

“And by _'that'_ , I assume you mean marriage with a woman?” Incredulous.

“That is, of course, exactly what I mean.”

“Are you recommending that I do so?”

“I am merely curious.” A bland smile.

My face flushed red. Disappointment, fury, bitterness, that this elder Holmes should now seem to be attempting to shoo me away from the fold of the family.

“I do not desire a conventional marriage,” I said quietly, restraining my anger. “I have never wanted one. I should never seek it. I have found all that I want and need in Sherlock. I have made my sacrifice, and willingly. Your words have wounded me, Mycroft.”

Mycroft Holmes stepped up, put an arm around my shoulder.

“My dear John, they were not meant to,” said he. “You must surely know by now that I am protective of my brother. He would not deserve a broken heart.”

“And he shall never have one,” I replied.

“I am glad of that,” said Mycroft. 

And in a moment that might yet never be repeated, the elder drew me to him. I was released within a second but all the same, for it to come from this most restrained of gentlemen was nothing short of revelatory.

“Come now,” said the revelation, “and let us go and see what is taking our boy quite so long. I have no doubt that he is raiding the wine cellar. I do not mind, but he ought not to touch the 1860 Bordeaux.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Our meal was both a quiet and a delicious one, made all the better by the fragrant 1863 Bordeaux. Mycroft sat at table with us while we ate and talked. His nerves were most apparent, for he cast frequent anxious looks towards the door as if an appearance should be imminent. We tempted him with the fruit crumble; he took three spoonfuls only. I was despatched for a second report. The good Dr. Humphreys met me with kindliness and patience. The contractions were five minutes apart; it would be soon. I relayed the news.

“This is almost exciting,” said Holmes, downing the last of his wine. “You should do this sort of thing more often, Mycroft.”

I do not think that his brother heard it, pacing as agitatedly as he was. We turned our talk towards the season's concerts at the St. James's Hall: of Norman Neruda, of Sarasate. Holmes declared that he should be purchasing tickets to all and everything, such was the excellence of the programme.

And now I found myself, too, stretching an ear towards the stair that I might hear something.

And Mycroft poured three more glasses of Bordeaux, and we toasted the St. James's Hall, the season and, rather more importantly, to whatever might be taking place a floor above us.

And then, after an eternity, the door opened and a flushed face appeared around it.

“Mr. Holmes, sir,” said the Doctor, “congratulations! You have a healthy baby son.”


	10. Precious

The next hours were passed in happy chaos: a handshake Hallelujah. Friends and family such as were gathered or might be bustling in and out were charged with Champagne glasses to the brim. We exchanged congratulations with Sophronia's mother, Mrs. Guillory. She proclaimed her joy and relief and a desire for a second flute of “those delectable bubbles”. Mycroft had vanished to be with his wife, and for those moments we did not intrude, for it was late, then: almost midnight. By now well filled with food and wine, the neither of us cared much for the thought of travel or the bitter cold outside. Mycroft had had the foresight to arrange for a spare bedroom to be prepared.

“You have the last room with a bed,” said he. “And I declare that my house has become a hotel these past few days. Go on, go on, the fire is lit there. Sleep well, and we shall see you in the morning. Goodnight Sherlock, goodnight John.”

For it being the last room, it was still yet finer than any hotel, for it was extravagantly furnished, lit and warm, with portraits and marble and intricate carving.

“A four-poster bed!” I exclaimed. I peeped out from the curtained window. I turned around to my friend to see him feeling out the mattress. He looked up at me and smiled.

“It is well sprung,” he said.

“That is as maybe,” I replied, amused, “but we should certainly not be carrying out extensive testing.”

Holmes unfastened his waistcoat buttons and lay back upon the pillows, his fingers rubbing gently in contemplation at the gold brocade.

“Are you all right, John?” 

“Yes,” I said. “I am.”

He regarded me quietly for a moment.

“You are an uncle,” he said. “How about that. And it is only the beginning.”

I sat down beside him and took his hand.

“I am looking forward to every second,” I replied. “In fact, I am rather hoping that Mycroft plans on a large family.”

“If he is fully intent on giving them ridiculous names such as Zylphia, Dobbin or Phlegmina, then I am inclined to hope not.”

I laughed. Holmes winked at me.

And so it was that we settled down to a few blissful hours of sleep amidst the continued activity in the hallway; the whispered voices, the opening and closing of what seemed like a hundred doors before eventually, the house fell quiet. And then, as my friend slept quietly beside me, I listened to the gurgle of the pipes and to the unfamiliar sounds of an old house settling itself in for the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I awoke early the next morning to find myself the last one risen. Holmes had procured us some hot water, and he was now shaving at the mirror. Our fire was unlit and the room was cold, but the bed was cosy, a delightful cocoon. I stuck my nose out from the blankets and sleepily watched my friend. He waved at me from his reflection.

“They are up and about at the crack of dawn in this house,” he said. “Mycroft was about to come in and tip over the mattress. I told him you might object.”

“I do hope that you are joking.” I yawned and blinked hard at my watch. “A quarter to seven! How long have you been awake?”

“I think an hour,” my friend replied. “I ventured down to the kitchen and had a cup of tea with Cook. She has promised to pack us half a sponge cake before we leave.” 

Holmes sluiced his face with steaming water, dabbed it dry with a white towel. “My back aches,” he complained. “The mattress was too soft after all.”

“They are always either too hard or too soft,” I said. “And you always grumble.”

He threw the towel at me. 

“Get dressed,” said he, “and come down to breakfast. You should see what Cook is preparing.”

It was nothing short of a small banquet: ham, bacon, eggs and pickles, thin sliced potatoes and great racks of toast, set in the centre of a dining table that could quite comfortably seat twelve. 

“This is surely not all for us,” I said.

“I am quite sure that it is,” my friend replied. 

When we had eaten all that we were able and I was contemplating if I might just fit in one last slice of toast, the dining room door opened inwards. Mycroft Holmes peered around the crack.

“My goodness, are you _still_ eating?” he said, astonished. “We shall have nothing left in the larder at all at this rate.” He beckoned. “Come on, Sherlock, John, come with me, come on up.”

Mrs. Guillory was in the nursery, tending a small bundle inside the crib. She raised her head as we entered, and smiled.

“Sophronia is sleeping in her room,” she said. “I would not wish her to be disturbed, she is so tired. See this little one! Precious little mite.”

We all four of us leaned in. For a moment I was reminded irresistibly of young Buster in his blanket, coddled. This tiny babe lay wrapped with eyes tight shut, dark wisps of hair just jutting out, adorable and innocent. I reached out and extended my finger, touched so gently at the little hand which jerked and grasped. 

Holmes's expression was inscrutable; he seemed almost to be examining the child for signs of defect.

“He has your forehead, Mycroft,” he said at last.

“Yes. And if he grows up to have my appetite, then we shall be in trouble,” said the elder brother dryly.

“Jeremiah,” I said softly. “The name suits the little fellow.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Our sitting-room at Baker Street was chill when we arrived back just before midday. Mrs. Hudson fussed us, brought us tea and built the fire. We answered her eager questions, accepted the knitted cap and bootees and promised that we should pass them on to their rightful owner as soon as possible. Once settled by the warmth we both fell into our own thoughts, our pipe smoke serving as a quiet punctuation. For myself, and despite those brief moments of conflict the evening before, my mood was gently happy, optimistic. Holmes, I think, felt much the same, if still grappling with the outlandish new notion of becoming 'Uncle Sherlock'.

“Should we cut into the sponge cake?” I suggested as we finished our pipes.

Holmes squinted at me from the corner of one eye.

“John,” said he, “look around you. What do you see? Well, I shall tell you what I see. I see a mountain of fruit, a wheelbarrow of cheese, a cacophony of alcohol and now, yes, half a sponge cake.” He passed a hand over his face. “It is worse than Christmas.”

“It is _better_ than Christmas,” I told him as I took out my penknife.

He stood up and moved across to me, stooped down to tip my chin and to kiss my mouth.

He walked to his desk and unlocked a drawer. I watched him take out the morocco case and set it down upon the top. He opened it, paused, lifted out a small phial, examined it detachedly. He retained it within his hand, closed shut the case and once again replaced it inside the drawer. I looked at him, curious. He left the room. I heard the bathroom door open, close again. He reappeared a few moments later with an empty phial.

“In increments, John, in increments,” he said. “Because that is how I am, and because I love you.”

Over days, weeks or months, I do trust him. 

Because that is how he is, and because I love him.

 

\- END -


End file.
